LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 
MRS. 

ERIC   SCHMIDT 


LITTLE  FRENCH  MASTERPIECES 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

From  a  steel  engraving 


Xittle  Jrencb  flfcaeterpieces 

Edited  by 

Alexander  Jessup 


Honore  de  Balzac 

An  Introduction  by 

Ferdinand  Brunetiere 


The  Translation  by 

George  Burnham  Ives 


G.  P.    Putnam's   Sons 

New    York  and  London 
Cbc  Tknichcrbocher  press 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


ttbe  Itnicfterbocfcer  frees,  Hew  tforft 


Contents 

PACK 

HONORE  DE  BALZAC                       .        .  ix 

THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE      .        .  3 

A  SEASHORE  DRAMA  ....  67 

AN  EPISODE  UNDER  THE  TERROR.        .  115 

LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE        .        .        •  15? 

THE  CONSCRIPT 207 

A  PASSION  IN  THE  DESERT  .                .  245 


Introduction 


fvttj 


Honor£  de  Balzac 


BALZAC'S  short  stories,  which  we  call  in 
French  nouvelles,  are,  generally  speak- 
ing, not  the  best-known  or  the  most  popular 
part  of  his  work;  nor  are  they  the  part  best 
fitted  to  give  a  true  and  complete  idea  of  his 
genius.  But  some  of  them  are  none  the  less 
masterpieces  in  their  kind;  they  have  charac- 
teristics and  a  significance  not  always  pos- 
sessed by  their  authors  long  novels,  such  as 
Eugenie  Grandet  or  Cousin  Pons ;  and  finally, 
for  this  very  reason,  they  hold  in  the  unfin- 
ished structure  of  The  Human  Comedy  a  place 
which  it  will  be  interesting  to  try  to  determine. 
That  is  all  that  will  be  attempted  in  this  In- 
troduction. 
Some  of  the  stories  contained  in  the  present 


Introduction 


volume  were  written  under  curious  circum- 
stances. In  the  first  place  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  they  all  date  from  1830,  1831,  and  1833,' 
and  therefore  precede  the  conception  and 
planning  of  The  Human  Comedy.  Their  value 
is  far  from  being  diminished  by  that  fact.  An 
Episode  under  the  Terror  (1830),  for  instance, 
was  composed  as  an  introduction  to  the 
Memoirs  of  Sanson — that  executioner  who 
of  all  executioners  in  the  world's  history  pro- 
bably despatched  the  fewest  criminals  and 
yet  shed  the  most  blood;  and  the  Memoirs 
themselves,  which  are  entirely  apocryphal, 
are  also  in  part  Balzac's  own  work.  But, 
though  composed  in  this  way,  to  order  and 
as  a  piece  of  hack  work,  An  Episode  under 
the  Terror  is  in  its  artistic  brevity  one  of 
Balzac's  most  tragic  and  most  finished  nar- 
ratives. La  Grande  Breteche  (1832)  was  at 

1  According  to  Lovenjoul,  A  Seashore  Drama  was  first 
published  in  the  fourth  edition  of  the  Philosophic  Studies, 
in  1835.     But  this  fact  in  no  wise  lessens  the  force  of  M. 
Brunetiere's  argument. — [Ed.] 
U) 


Introduction 


first  only  an  episode  inserted  among  the  more 
extended  narratives  of  which  it  made  part,  as 
in  the  old-fashioned  novel  of  tales  within  tales 
of  which  Gil  Bias  is  the  type ;  and  brief  as  it 
is,  Balzac  nevertheless  rewrote  it  three  or  four 
times.  It  is  therefore  anything  but  an  im- 
provisation. Yet  no  other  of  these  short 
stories  can  give  more  vividly  than  La  Grande 
Breteche  the  impression  of  a  work  sprung  at 
once  in  full  completeness  from  its  author's 
brain,  and  conceived  from  the  very  first  in  its 
indivisible  unity.  But,  precisely,  it  is  one  of 
the  characteristic  traits  of  Balzac's  genius  that 
we  hardly  need  to  know  when  or  for  what  pur- 
pose he  wrote  this  or  that  one  of  his  novels  or 
stories.  He  bore  them  all  within  him  at  once 
—  we  might  say  that  the  germ  of  them  was 
preexistent  in  him  before  he  had  any  con- 
scious thought  of  objectivising  them.  His 
characters  were  born  in  him,  as  though  from 
all  eternity,  before  he  knew  them  himself;  and 
before  he  himself  suspected  it,  The  Human 
Comedy  was  alive,  was  confusedly  moving, 

[xi] 


Introduction 


was  slowly  shaping  itself,  in  his  brain.  This 
point  must  be  clearly  seen  before  he  can  be 
understood  or  appreciated  at  his  true  value. 
However  much  interest  a  monograph  on  some 
animal  or  plant  may  have  in  itself — and  that 
interest,  no  doubt,  is  often  great — it  has  far 
more  through  the  relations  it  bears  to  other 
monographs  and  to  the  whole  field  of  know- 
ledge of  which  its  subject  is  only  a  fragment- 
ary part.  So  it  is  with  Balzac's  novels  and 
stories.  Their  interest  is  not  limited  to  them- 
selves. They  bring  out  one  another's  value  and 
significance,  they  illustrate  and  give  import- 
ance to  each  other;  they  have,  outside  them- 
selves, a  justification  for  existence.  This  will 
become  clear  if  we  compare  Merimee's  Mateo 
Falcone,  for  instance,  with  A  Seashore  Drama 
(1835).  The  subject  is  the  same:  in  each  case 
it  is  a  father  who  constitutes  himself  justiciary 
of  the  honour  of  his  race.  But  while  Merimee's 
work,  though  perhaps  better  written  or  at  least 
engraved  with  deeper  tooling,  is  after  all 
nothing  but  an  anecdote,  a  sensational  news- 

[xiij 


Introduction 


item,  a  story  of  local  manners,  Balzac's  is 
bound  up  with  a  whole  mass  of  ideas,  not  to 
say  a  whole  social  philosophy,  of  which  it 
is,  properly  speaking,  only  a  chapter;  and  of 
which  The  Conscript  (1831)  is  another. 

But  why  did  Balzac  confine  some  of  his 
subjects  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the  nou- 
yelle,  while  he  expanded  others  to  the  dimen- 
sions of  epic,  we  might  say,  or  of  history  ? 
It  was  because,  though  analogies  are  numer- 
ous between  natural  history  and  what  we  may 
call  social  history  or  the  natural  history  of 
society,  yet  their  resemblance  is  not  com- 
plete nor  their  identity  absolute.  There  are 
peculiarities  or  variations  of  passion  which, 
though  physiologically  or  pathologically  in- 
teresting, are  socially  insignificant  and  can  be 
left  out  of  account:  for  instance,  A  Passion  in 
the  Desert  (1830),  or  The  Unknown  Master- 
piece (1831).  It  is  rare,  in  art,  for  the  passion- 
ate pursuit  of  progress  to  result  only,  as  with 
Frenhofer,  in  jumbling  the  colours  on  a  great 
painter's  canvas;  and,  even  were  this  less  rare, 


Introduction 


artists  are  not  very  numerous  !  So,  if  the 
writer  gave  to  his  narrative  of  this  painful  but 
infrequent  adventure  as  full  a  development,  if 
he  diversified  and  complicated  it  with  as  many 
episodes  and  details  as  the  adventures  of  Baron 
Hulot  in  Cousin  Bette  or  those  of  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  in  The  Lily  in  the  Valley,  he  would 
thereby  attribute  to  it,  socially  or  historically, 
an  importance  it  does  not  possess.  He 
would  err,  and  would  make  us  err  with  him, 
regarding  the  true  proportions  of  things.  He 
would  represent  the  humanity  which  he  was 
attempting  to  depict,  in  a  manner  far  from  con- 
sistent with  reality.  Hence  may  be  deduced 
the  aesthetics  of  the  nouvelle,  and  its  distinc- 
tion from  the  conte,  and  also  from  the  roman 
or  novel. 

The  nouvelle  differs  from  the  conte  in  that 
it  always  claims  to  be  a  picture  of  ordinary 
life;  and  it  differs  from  the  novel  in  that  it 
selects  from  ordinary  life,  and  depicts  by  pre- 
ference and  almost  exclusively,  those  examples 
of  the  strange,  the  rare,  and  the  extraordinary 


Introduction 


which  ordinary  life  does  in  spite  of  its  mono- 
tony nevertheless  contain.  It  is  neither  strange 
nor  rare  for  a  miser  to  make  all  the  people 
about  him,  including  his  wife  and  children, 
victims  of  the  passion  to  which  he  is  himself 
enslaved;  and  that  is  the  subject  of  Eugenie 
Grandet.  It  is  nothing  extraordinary  for 
parents  of  humble  origin  to  be  almost  dis- 
owned by  their  children  whom  they  have 
married  too  far  above  them,  in  another  class 
of  society;  and  that  is  the  subject  of  Father 
Goriot.  But  for  a  husband,  as  in  La  Grande 
Breteche,  to  wall  up  his  wife's  lover  in  a  closet, 
and  that  before  her  very  eyes;  and,  through  a 
combination  of  circumstances  in  themselves 
quite  out  of  the  ordinary,  for  neither  one  of 
them  to  dare  or  be  able  to  make  any  defence 
against  his  vengeance  —  this  is  certainly  some- 
what rare  !  Then  read  The  Conscript,  or  An 
Episode  under,  the  Terror;  the  plot  is  no 
ordinary  one,  and  perhaps,  with  a  little  ex- 
aggeration, we  may  say  it  can  have  occurred 
but  once.  Such,  then,  is  the  field  of  the 


Introduction 


nouvelle.  Let  us  set  off  from  it  the  fantastic,  in 
the  style  of  Hoffmann  or  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
even  though  Balzac  sometimes  tried  that  also, 
as  in  The  Wild  Ass's  Skin,  for  instance,  or  in 
Melmoth  Converted;  for  the  fantastic  belongs 
to  the  field  of  the  conte.  But  unusual  events, 
especially  such  as  result  from  an  unforeseen 
combination  of  circumstances;  and  really 
tragic  adventures,  which,  like  Monsieur  and 
Madame  de  Merret's  in  La  Grande  Breteche  or 
Cambremer's  in  A  Seashore  Drama,  make 
human  conscience  hesitate  to  call  the  crime  by 
its  name;  and  illogical  variations,  deviations, 
or  perversions  of  passion;  and  the  pathology 
of  feeling,  as  in  The  Unknown  Masterpiece; 
and  still  more  generally,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself,  all  those  things  in  life  which  are  out 
of  the  usual  run  of  life,  which  happen  on  its 
margin,  and  so  are  beside  yet  not  outside  it ; 
all  that  makes  its  surprises,  its  differences,  its 
startlingness,  so  to  speak  —  all  this  is  the  pro- 
vince of  the  nouvelle,  bordering  on  that  of  the 
novel  yet  distinct  from  it.  Out  of  common 

[xvij 


Introduction 


every-day  life  you  cannot  really  make  nou- 
w//£S,but  only  novels — miniature  novels,  when 
they  are  brief,  but  still  novels.  In  no  French 
writer  of  the  last  century,  I  think,  is  this  dis- 
tinction more  evident  or  more  strictly  observed 
than  it  is  in  The  Human  Comedy;  and  unless 
I  am  much  mistaken,  this  may  serve  to  solve, 
or  at  least  to  throw  light  on,  the  vexed  ques- 
tion of  Honore  de  Balzac's  naturalism  or 
romanticism. 

In  the  literal  and  even  the  etymological  sense 
of  the  word  naturalism  —  that  is,  without 
taking  account  of  the  way  in  which  Emile 
Zola  and  some  other  Italians  have  perverted  its 
nature —  no  one  can  question  that  Balzac  was 
a  naturalist.  One  might  as  well  deny  that 
Victor  Hugo  was  a  romanticist!  Everybody 
to-day  knows  that  neither  the  freedom  of  his 
vocabulary,  nor  some  very  detailed  descrip- 
tions in  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  and  especially 
in  Les  Mistrables,  nor  his  coarse  popular  jokes, 
often  in  doubtful  taste  if  not  sometimes  worse, 
nor  yet  the  interest  in  social  questions  which 


Introduction 


characterised  him  from  the  very  first  —  that 
nothing  of  all  this,  I  say,  prevents  Victor 
Hugo  from  having  been,  up  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  the  romanticist;  we  may  rest  assured 
that  in  whatever  way  romanticism  shall  be 
defined,  he  will  always  be,  in  the  history  of 
French  literature,  its  living  incarnation.  Bal- 
zac, on  the  other  hand,  will  always  be  the 
living  incarnation  of  naturalism.  And  surely, 
if  to  be  a  naturalist  is  to  confine  the  field  of 
one's  art  to  the  observation  of  contemporary 
life,  and  to  try  to  give  a  complete  and  adequate 
representation  thereof,  not  drawing  back  or 
hesitating,  not  abating  one  tittle  of  the  truth, 
in  the  depiction  of  ugliness  and  vice;  if  to 
be  a  naturalist  is,  like  a  portrait-painter,  to 
subordinate  every  aesthetic  and  moral  con- 
sideration to  the  law  of  likeness  —  then  it  is 
impossible  to  be  more  of  a  naturalist  than 
Balzac.  But  with  all  this,  since  his  imagina- 
tion is  unruly,  capricious,  changeable,  with  a 
strong  tendency  to  exaggeration,  audacious, 
and  corrupt;  since  he,  as  much  as  any  of  his 

fxviii] 


Introduction 


contemporaries,  feels  the  need  of  startling  us; 
since  he  habitually  writes  under  the  dominion 
of  a  kind  of  hallucinatory  fever  sufficient  of 
itself  to  mark  what  we  may  call  the  romantic 
state  of  mind  —  romanticism  is  certainly  not 
absent  from  the  work  of  this  naturalist,  but 
on  the  contrary  would  fill  and  inspire  the 
whole  of  it,  were  that  result  not  prevented  by 
the  claims,  or  conditions,  of  observation.  A 
romantic  imagination,  struggling  to  triumph 
over  itself,  and  succeeding  only  by  confining 
itself  to  the  study  of  the  model  —  such  may  be 
the  definition  of  Balzac's  imagination  or  genius ; 
and,  in  a  way,  to  justify  this  definition  by  his 
work  we  need  only  to  distinguish  clearly  his 
nouvelles  from  his  novels. 

Balzac's  nouvelles  represent  the  share  of 
romanticism  in  his  work.  La  Grande  Bre- 
teche  is  the  typical  romantic  narrative,  and 
we  may  say  as  much  of  The  Unknown  Mas- 
terpiece. The  observer  shuts  his  eyes;  he 
now  looks  only  within  himself;  he  imagines 
"  what  might  have  been  ";  and  he  writes  An 

[xix] 


Introduction 


Episode  under  the  Terror.  It  is  for  him  a 
way  of  escape  from  the  obsession  of  the  real: 

"  The  real  is  strait;  the  possible  is  vast." 

His  unbridled  imagination  takes  free  course. 
He  works  in  dream.  And,  since  of  course 
we  can  never  succeed  in  building  within  our- 
selves perfectly  water-tight  compartments, 
entirely  separating  dream  from  memory  and 
imagination  from  observation,  reality  does 
find  its  way  into  his  nouvelles  by  way  of 
exactness  in  detail,  but  their  conception  re- 
mains essentially  or  chiefly  romantic;  just  as  in 
his  long  novels,  Euge'nie  Grandet,  A  Bache- 
lor's Establishment  (Un  Manage  de  Gar $ on), 
Cesar  Birotteau,  A  Dark  Affair,  Cousin 
Pans,  and  Cousin  Bette,  his  observation  re- 
mains naturalistic,  and  his  imagination  per- 
verts it,  by  magnifying  or  exaggerating,  yet 
never  intentionally  or  systematically  or  to  the 
extent  of  falsifying  the  true  relations  of  things. 
Shall  I  dare  say,  to  English  readers,  that  by 
this  fact  he  belongs  to  the  family  of  Shakes- 


Introduction 


peare  ?  His  long  novels  are  his  Othello,  his 
Romeo,  his  Macbeth,  his  Richard  III.,  and 
Coriolanns;  and  his  nou-velles,  his  short  stor- 
ies, are  his  Tempest,  his  Twelfth  Night,  and 
his  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

This  comparison,  which  really  is  not  a 
comparison  but  a  mere  analogy,  such  as 
might  be  drawn  between  Musset  and  Byron, 
may  serve  to  bring  out  one  more  character- 
istic of  Balzac's  nouvelles  —  they  are  philo- 
sophic; in  his  The  Human  Comedy  it  is 
under  the  title  of  Philosophic  Studies  that 
he  brought  together,  whatever  their  or- 
igin, such  stories  as  A  Seashore  Drama,  The 
Unknown  Masterpiece,  and  even  The  Con- 
script. By  so  doing  he  no  doubt  meant  to 
imply  that  the  sensational  stories  on  which 
they  are  based  did  not  contain  their  whole 
significance ;  that  he  was  using  them  merely  as 
a  means  of  stating  a  problem,  of  fixing  the 
reader's  attention  for  a  moment  on  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  mysterious  or  unknown  by  which 
we  are,  so  to  speak,  enwrapped  about.  "We 

[xxi] 


Introduction 


might  add  this  tragic  story,"  he  writes  at  the 
end  of  his  The  Conscript,  "  to  the  mass  of  other 
observations  on  that  sympathy  which  defies 
the  law  of  space  —  a  body  of  evidence  which 
some  few  solitary  scholars  are  collecting  with 
scientific  curiosity,  and  which  will  one  day 
serve  as  basis  for  a  new  science,  a  science 
which  till  now  has  lacked  only  its  man  of 
genius."  These  are  large  words,  it  would 
seem,  with  which  to  point  the  moral  of  a 
mere  historical  anecdote.  But  if  we  consider 
them  well,  we  shall  see  that,  whatever  we 
may  think  of  this  "new  science,"  Balzac 
wrote  his  The  Conscript  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  ending  it  with  that  sentence.  Read,  too,  A 
Seashore  Drama.  It  is  often  said  that  "  A  fact 
is  a  fact " — and  I  scarcely  know  a  more  futile 
sophism,  unless  it  be  the  one  which  consists 
in  saying  that  "  Of  tastes  and  colours  there  is 
no  disputing."  Such  is  not  Balzac's  opinion, 
at  any  rate.  He  believes  that  a  fact  is  more 
than  a  fact,  that  it  is  the  expression  or  man- 
ifestation of  something  other  or  more  than 

fxxii) 


Introduction 


itself;  or  again,  that  it  is  a  piece  of  evid- 
ence, a  document,  which  it  is  not  enough  to 
have  put  on  record,  but  in  which  we  must 
also  seek,  through  contrasts  and  resem- 
blances, its  deep  ulterior  meaning.  And  this 
is  what  he  has  tried  to  show  in  his  nou-velles. 
Thus  we  see  what  place  they  hold  in  his 
The  Human  Comedy.  Balzac's  short  stories  are 
not,  in  his  work,  what  one  might  be  tempted 
to  call  somewhat  disdainfully  "the  chips  of 
his  workshop."  Nor  are  they  even,  in  rela- 
tion to  his  long  novels,  what  a  painter's 
sketches,  rough  drafts,  and  studies  are  to  his 
finished  pictures.  He  did  not  write  them  by 
way  of  practice  or  experiment;  they  have 
their  own  value,  intrinsic  and  well-defined. 
It  would  be  a  mistake,  also,  to  consider  them 
as  little  novels,  in  briefer  form,  which  more 
time  or  leisure  might  have  allowed  their 
author  to  treat  with  more  fullness.  He  con- 
ceived them  for  their  own  sake;  he  would 
never  have  consented  to  give  them  propor- 
tions which  did  not  befit  them.  The  truth  of 

[xxlii] 


Introduction 


the  matter  is  that  by  reason  of  their  dealing 
with  the  exceptional  or  extraordinary,  they 
are,  in  a  way,  the  element  of  romantic 
drama  in  Balzac's  Comedy;  and  by  reason 
of  their  philosophic  or  symbolic  significance, 
they  add  the  element  of  mystery  to  a  work 
which  but  for  them  would  be  somewhat 
harshly  illumined  by  the  hard  light  of  reality. 
Once  more,  that  is  why  he  did  not  classify 
his  The  Conscript  with  the  Scenes  of  Political 
Life,  or  his  A  Seashore  Drama  with  the  Scenes 
of  Country  Life.  That,  too,  is  what  gives 
them  their  interest  and  their  originality.  That 
is  what  distinguishes  them  from  the  stories 
of  Prosper  Merimee,  or,  later,  those  of  Guy  de 
Maupassant.  So  much  being  made  clear,  it  is 
not  important  now  to  ask  whether  they  really 
have  as  much  depth  of  meaning  as  their 
author  claimed  for  them.  That  is  another 
question;  and  I  have  just  indicated  why  I 
cannot  treat  it  in  this  brief  Introduction.  Only 
in  a  complete  study  of  Balzac  could  his  nou- 
velles  be  adequately  judged.  Then  their  due 

fxxiv] 


Introduction 


place  would  be  assigned  to  them,  in  the  full 
scheme  of  The  Human  Comedy.  I  shall  be 
happy  if  the  English  reader  remembers  this; 
and  if  the  reading  of  these  nowvelles,  after 
having  for  a  moment  charmed  him,  shall  also 
inspire  him  with  the  wish  to  know  more 
closely  and  completely  the  greatest  of  French 
novelists. 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 


m 


TO  A  LORD: 

****** 

****** 
»»***# 

1845. 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 
l 

GILLETTE 

T  ATE  in  the  year  1612,  one  cold  morning  in 
L'  December,  a  young  man  whose  garments 
seemed  very  thin  was  walking  before  the 
door  of  a  house  on  Rue  des  Grands-Augustins, 
Paris.  After  pacing  that  street  for  a  long  time, 
with  the  indecision  of  a  lover  who  dares  not 
pay  a  visit  to  his  first  mistress,  however  kind 
she  may  be,  he  at  last  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  door  and  asked  if  Master  Francois  Por- 
bus  was  at  home.  Upon  receiving  an  affirma- 
tive reply  from  a  woman  who  was  sweeping 
a  room  on  the  lower  floor,  the  young  man 
went  slowly  up-stairs,  hesitating  from  stair  to 
stair,  like  a  courtier  of  recent  creation,  appre- 
hensive of  the  greeting  which  he  was  to 

[8] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


receive  from  the  king.  When  he  reached  the 
top  of  the  winding  staircase,  he  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  landing,  uncertain  whether  he 
should  lift  the  grotesque  knocker  affixed  to 
the  door  of  the  studio  where  the  painter  of 
Henri  IV.,  cast  aside  for  Rubens  by  Marie  de 
Medici,  was  doubtless  at  work.  The  young 
man  felt  that  profound  emotion  which  must 
cause  the  hearts  of  all  great  artists  to  beat 
quickly,  when,  in  the  prime  of  youth  and  of 
their  love  for  art,  they  approach  a  man  of 
genius,  or  some  noble  masterpiece. 

There  exists  in  all  human  sentiments  a 
primitive  flower,  engendered  by  a  noble 
enthusiasm  which  grows  constantly  weaker 
and  weaker,  until  happiness  ceases  to  be  more 
than  a  memory  and  glory  more  than  a  lie. 
Among  these  transitory  sentiments,  nothing 
bears  so  close  a  resemblance  to  love  as  the 
youthful  passion  of  an  artist  just  beginning  to 
experience  the  delicious  torture  of  his  destiny 
of  renown  and  of  misfortune,  a  passion  full  of 
audacity  and  shyness,  of  vague  beliefs  and  of 

[41 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

certain  discouragement.  The  youthful  genius, 
with  empty  pockets,  whose  heart  has  not 
throbbed  upon  appearing  before  a  master,  will 
always  lack  one  chord  in  his  heart,  some  in- 
definable touch  of  the  brush,  some  feeling  in 
his  work,  some  shade  of  poetical  expression. 
If  some  boasters,  puffed  out  with  conceit, 
believe  too  early  in  the  future,  they  are  con- 
sidered people  of  intellect  by  fools  alone.  In 
this  regard,  the  young  stranger  seemed  to 
possess  real  merit,  if  talent  is  to  be  measured 
by  that  early  timidity,  that  indescribable 
modesty  which  people  destined  to  glory  grad- 
ually lose  in  the  exercise  of  their  art,  as  pretty 
women  lose  theirs  in  the  manoeuvring  of 
coquetry.  The  habitude  of  triumph  lessens 
doubt,  and  modesty  perhaps  is  a  form  of 
doubt. 

Overwhelmed  by  surprise  and  distress  at 
that  moment  of  his  overweening  presumption, 
the  poor  neophyte  would  not  have  entered  the 
studio  of  the  painter  to  whom  we  owe  the 
admirable  portrait  of  Henri  IV.,  except  for  an 

[5] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


extraordinary  reinforcement  sent  him  by 
chance.  An  old  man  ascended  the  stairs. 
From  the  oddity  of  his  costume,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  his  lace  ruff,  the  ponderous  self-assur- 
ance of  his  gait,  the  young  man  divined  that 
he  was  either  the  painter's  patron  or  his 
friend;  he  drew  back  against  the  wall  to  make 
room  for  him,  and  gazed  at  him  curiously, 
hoping  to  find  in  him  the  kindly  nature  of  an 
artist,  or  the  obliging  disposition  of  those  who 
love  art;  but  he  detected  something  diaboli- 
cal in  that  face,  and  above  all  that  indefinable 
expression  which  artists  dote  upon.  Imagine 
a,  bald,  prominent,  even  protuberant  forehead, 
overshadowing  a  small,  flattened  nose,  turned 
up  at  the  end  like  Rabelaic  3  or  Socrates's; 
a  smiling  mouth,  wrinkled  at  the  corners; 
a  short  chin,  proudly  raised,  and  adorned 
with  a  gray  beard  trimmed  to  a  point;  sea- 
green  eyes,  apparently  dulled  by  age,  which, 
however,  by  virtue  of  the  contrast  of  the 
pearly-white  in  which  the  pupils  swam, 
sometimes  emitted  magnetic  glances  under 

[6] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

the  spur  of  wrath  or  enthusiasm.  The  face 
was  woefully  ravaged  by  the  fatigues  of  age, 
and  even  more  by  the  thoughts  which  tire 
mind  and  body  alike.  The  eyes  had  no  lashes, 
and  one  could  barely  detect  a  trace  of  eyebrows 
over  their  protruding  arches.  Place  that  head 
upon  a  slender  and  fragile  body,  surround  it 
with  a  lace  ruff  of  snowy  whiteness  and  of  a 
pattern  as  elaborate  as  that  of  a  silver  fish-knife, 
throw  a  heavy  gold  chain  over  the  old  man's 
black  doublet,  and  you  will  have  an  imperfect 
image  of  that  individual,  to  whom  the  dim 
light  of  the  hall  imparted  an  even  stranger 
colouring.  You  would  have  said  that  it  was 
one  of  Rembrandt's  canvases,  walking  silently, 
without  a  frame,  through  the  dark  atmosphere 
which  that  great  painter  made  his  own.  The 
old  man  cast  a  sagacious  glance  at  the  young 
one,  tapped  thrice  on  the  door,  and  said  to  a 
sickly-looking  personage  of  about  forty  years, 
who  opened  it: 

"Good  morning,  master." 

Porbus  bowed  respectfully ;  he  admitted  the 

[7] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


young  man,  thinking  that  he  had  come  with 
the  other,  and  paid  the  less  heed  to  him  be- 
cause the  neophyte  was  evidently  under  the 
spell  which  a  born  painter  inevitably  expe- 
riences at  the  aspect  of  the  first  studio  that  he 
sees,  where  some  of  the  material  processes  of 
art  are  revealed  to  him.  A  window  in  the 
ceiling  lighted  Master  Porbus's  studio.  The 
light,  concentrated  upon  a  canvas  standing  on 
the  easel,  which  as  yet  bore  only  a  few  light 
strokes,  did  not  reach  the  dark  recesses  in  the 
corners  of  that  enormous  room;  but  a  few 
stray  gleams  lighted  up  the  silver  bull's-eye  in 
the  centre  of  a  cavalryman's  cuirass  hanging 
on  the  wall  in  the  ruddy  shadow;  illuminated 
with  a  sudden  beam  the  carved  and  polished 
cornice  of  an  old-fashioned  sideboard,  laden 
with  curious  vessels;  or  studded  with  dazzling 
points  of  light  the  rough  woof  of  certain  old 
curtains  of  gold  brocade,  with  broad,  irregular 
folds,  scattered  about  as  drapery.  Plaster 
casts,  busts,  and  fragments  of  antique  god- 
desses, fondly  polished  by  the  kisses  of  cent- 

[8] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

uries,  lay  about  upon  tables  and  consoles. 
Innumerable  sketches,  studies  in  coloured 
chalk,  in  red  lead,  or  in  pen  and  ink,  covered 
the  walls  to  the  ceiling.  Boxes  of  colours, 
bottles  of  oil  and  of  essences,  and  overturned 
stools,  left  only  a  narrow  path  to  the  sort 
of  halo  projected  by  the  high  stained-glass 
window,  through  which  the  light  fell  full 
upon  Porbus's  pale  face  and  upon  the  ivory 
skull  of  his  strange  visitor.  The  young  man's 
attention  was  soon  exclusively  absorbed  by  a 
picture  which  had  already  become  famous 
even  in  that  epoch  of  commotion  and  revolu- 
tion, and  which  was  visited  by  some  of  those 
obstinate  enthusiasts  to  whom  we  owe  the 
preservation  of  the  sacred  fire  during  evil 
days.  That  beautiful  canvas  represented  S/. 
Mary  the  Egyptian  preparing  to  pay  for  her 
passage  in  the  boat.  That  masterpiece, 
painted  for  Marie  de  Medici,  was  sold  by  her 
in  the  days  of  her  destitution. 

"I  like  your  saint,"  the  old  man  said  to 
Porbus,  "and  I  would  give  you  ten  golden 

m 


Honore  de  Balzac 


crowns  above  the  price  that  the  queen  is  to 
pay;  but  meddle  in  her  preserves!  the 
deuce! " 

"  You  think  it  is  well  done,  do  you  ?" 
"Hum!  "said  the  old  man,  "well  done? 
Yes  and  no.  Your  saint  is  not  badly  put  to- 
gether, but  she  is  not  alive.  You  fellows 
think  that  you  have  done  everything  when 
you  have  drawn  a  figure  correctly  and  put 
everything  in  its  place  according  to  the  laws 
of  anatomy.  You  colour  this  feature  with  a 
flesh-tint  prepared  beforehand  on  your  pa- 
lette, taking  care  to  keep  one  side  darker  than 
the  other;  and  because  you  glance  from  time 
to  time  at  a  nude  woman  standing  on  a  table, 
you  think  that  you  have  copied  nature,  you 
imagine  that  you  are  painters,  and  that  you 
have  discovered  God's  secret!  Bah!  To  be 
a  great  poet,  it  is  not  enough  to  know  syntax, 
and  to  avoid  errors  in  grammar. 

"Look  at  your  saint,  Porbus.  At  first 
glance  she  seems  admirable;  but  at  the  sec- 
ond, one  sees  that  she  is  glued  to  the  canvas, 

[10] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

and  that  it  is  impossible  to  walk  about  her 
body.  She  is  a  silhouette  with  but  a  single 
face,  a  figure  cut  out  of  canvas,  an  image  that 
can  neither  turn  nor  change  its  position.  I 
am  not  conscious  of  the  air  between  that  arm 
and  the  background  of  the  picture;  space  and 
depth  are  lacking.  However,  everything  is 
right  so  far  as  perspective  is  concerned,  and 
the  gradation  of  light  and  shade  is  scrupul- 
ously observed;  but,  despite  such  praise- 
worthy efforts,  I  am  unable  to  believe  that 
that  beautiful  body  is  animated  with  the  warm 
breath  of  life.  It  seems  to  me  that,  if  I  should 
put  my  hand  upon  that  firm,  round  breast,  I 
should  find  it  as  cold  as  marble.  No,  my 
friend,  the  blood  does  not  flow  beneath  that 
ivory  skin;  life  does  not  swell  with  its  purple 
dew  the  veins  and  fibres  which  intertwine 
like  network  beneath  the  transparent,  amber- 
hued  temples  and  breast.  This  place  throbs 
with  life,  but  that  other  place  is  motionless; 
life  and  death  contend  in  every  detail;  here  it 
is  a  woman,  there  a  statue,  and  there  a  corpse. 
("1 


Honore  de  Balzac 


Your  creation  is  incomplete.  You  have  been 
able  to  breathe  only  a  portion  of  your  soul 
into  your  cherished  work.  The  torch  of 
Prometheus  has  gone  out  more  than  once 
in  your  hands,  and  many  parts  of  your  pict- 
ure have  not  been  touched  by  the  celestial 
flame." 

"But  why,  my  dear  master?"  Porbus  re- 
spectfully asked  the  old  man,  while  the  young 
man  had  difficulty  in  repressing  a  savage  de- 
sire to  strike  him. 

"Ah!  it  is  this  way,"  replied  the  little  old 
man.  "You  have  wavered  irresolutely  be- 
tween the  two  systems,  between  drawing  and 
colour,  between  the  phlegmatic  minuteness, 
the  stiff  precision  of  the  old  German  masters, 
and  the  dazzling  ardour  and  happy  plenitude  of 
the  Italian  painters.  You  have  tried  to  imitate 
at  the  same  time  Hans  Holbein  and  Titian, 
Albert  Durer  and  Paul  Veronese.  Assuredly 
that  was  a  noble  ambition!  But  what  has 
happened?  You  have  achieved  neither  the 
severe  charm  of  precision,  nor  the  deceitful 

[12] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

magic  of  the  chiaroscuro.  In  this  spot,  like 
melted  bronze  which  bursts  its  too  fragile 
mould,  the  rich,  light  colouring  of  Titian  brings 
out  too  prominently  the  meagre  outlines  of 
Albert  Durer  in  which  you  moulded  it.  Else- 
where, the  features  have  resisted  and  held  in 
check  the  superb  polish  of  the  Venetian  pa- 
lette. Your  face  is  neither  perfectly  drawn 
nor  perfectly  painted,  and  bears  everywhere 
the  traces  of  that  unfortunate  indecision.  If 
you  did  not  feel  strong  enough  to  melt  to- 
gether in  the  flame  of  your  genius  the  two 
rival  systems,  you  should  have  chosen  frankly 
one  or  the  other,  in  order  to  obtain  the  unity 
which  represents  one  of  the  conditions  of 
life.  You  are  accurate  only  in  the  surround- 
ings, your  outlines  are  false,  do  not  envelop 
each  other,  and  give  no  promise  of  anything 
behind. 

"There  is  a  touch  of  truth  here,"  said  the 
old  man,  pointing  to  the  saint's  breast ;  "and 
here,"  he  added,  indicating  the  point  where 
the  shoulder  came  to  an  end.  "  But  here,"  he 

[13] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


said,  reverting  to  the  middle  of  the  throat, 
"all  is  false.  Let  us  not  attempt  to  analyse 
anything;  it  would  drive  you  to  despair." 

The  old  man  seated  himself  on  a  stool,  put 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  said  no  more. 

"Master,"  said  Porbus,  "I  studied  that 
throat  very  carefully  in  the  nude  figure;  but, 
unfortunately  for  us,  there  are  true  effects 
in  nature  which  seem  improbable  upon 
canvas." 

"The  mission  of  art  is  not  to  copy  nature, 
but  to  express  it!  You  are  not  a  vile  copyist, 
but  a  poet!"  cried  the  old  man,  hastily  inter- 
rupting Porbus  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"Otherwise  a  sculptor  would  reach  the  end  of 
his  labours  by  moulding  a  woman!  But  try 
to  mould  your  mistress's  hand  and  to  place  it 
before  you;  you  will  find  a  horrible  dead  thing 
without  any  resemblance,  and  you  will  be 
obliged  to  resort  to  the  chisel  of  the  man  who, 
without  copying  it  exactly,  will  impart  motion 
and  life  to  it.  We  have  to  grasp  the  spirit, 
the  soul,  the  physiognomy  of  things  and  of 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

creatures.  Effects !  effects !  why,  they  are  the 
accidents  of  life  and  not  life  itself. 

"A  hand  —  as  I  have  taken  that  example  — 
a  hand  does  not  simply  belong  to  the  body; 
it  expresses  and  carries  out  a  thought,  which 
you  must  grasp  and  represent.  Neither  the 
painter,  nor  the  poet,  nor  the  sculptor  should 
separate  the  effect  from  the  cause,  for  they  are 
inseparably  connected!  The  real  struggle  is 
there!  Many  painters  triumph  by  instinct, 
without  realising  this  axiom  of  art.  You  draw 
a  woman,  but  you  do  not  see  her!  That  is 
not  the  way  that  one  succeeds  in  forcing  the 
secrets  of  nature.  Your  hand  reproduces, 
without  your  knowledge,  the  model  that  you 
have  copied  at  your  master's  studio.  You  do 
not  go  down  sufficiently  into  the  inmost 
details  of  form,  you  do  not  pursue  it  with 
enough  enthusiasm  and  perseverance  in  its 
windings  and  its  flights. 

"  Beauty  is  a  stern  and  exacting  thing  which 
does  not  allow  itself  to  be  caught  so  easily; 
we  must  await  its  pleasure,  watch  for  it,  seize 

[15] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


it,  and  embrace  it  closely,  in  order  to  compel  it 
to  surrender.  Form  is  a  Proteus  much  more 
difficult  to  seize  and  more  fertile  in  evasions 
than  the  Proteus  of  fable;  only  after  long 
struggles  can  one  compel  it  to  show  itself  in 
its  real  guise.  You  are  content  with  the  first 
aspect  under  which  it  appears  to  you,  or  at 
most  with  the  second  or  third;  that  is  not 
true  of  the  victorious  fighters !  The  invincible 
painters  do  not  allow  themselves  to  be  de- 
ceived by  all  these  subterfuges;  they  persevere 
until  nature  is  reduced  to  the  point  where  she 
must  stand  forth  naked  and  in  her  real  shape. 
"That  was  the  process  adopted  by  Ra- 
phael," said  the  old  man,  removing  his  black 
velvet  cap  to  express  the  respect  inspired  by 
the  king  of  art;  "his  great  superiority  comes 
from  the  secret  perception  which,  in  him, 
seems  determined  to  shatter  form.  In  his 
figures  form  is  what  it  really  is  in  us,  an  in- 
terpreter for  the  communication  of  ideas  and 
sensations,  a  vast  poetic  conception.  Every 
figure  is  a  world,  a  portrait,  whose  model  has 

[16] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

appeared  in  a  sublime  vision,  tinged  with 
light,  indicated  by  an  inward  voice,  disrobed 
by  a  divine  figure,  which  points  out  the  sources 
of  expression  in  the  past  of  a  whole  life.  You 
give  your  women  lovely  robes  of  flesh,  lovely 
draperies  of  hair ;  but  where  is  the  blood  which 
engenders  tranquillity  or  passion,  and  which 
causes  special  effects  ?  Your  saint  is  a  dark 
woman,  but  this  one,  my  poor  Porbus,  is  a 
blonde!  Your  figures  are  pale,  coloured 
spectres  which  you  parade  before  our  eyes, 
and  you  call  that  painting  and  art! 

"  Because  you  have  made  something  which 
looks  more  like  a  woman  than  like  a  house, 
you  think  that  you  have  attained  your  end; 
and,  overjoyed  because  you  no  longer  have  to 
write  beside  your  figures,  currus  venustus, 
or  pulcher  homo,  like  the  first  painters,  you 
fancy  that  you  are  marvellous  artists!  Ah, 
no!  you  are  not  that  yet,  my  good  fellows; 
you  will  have  to  use  up  more  pencils  and 
cover  many  canvases  before  you  reach  that 
point !  To  be  sure,  a  woman  carries  her  head 

»  [IT) 


Honore  de  Balzac 


like  that,  she  wears  her  skirts  as  this  one  does, 
her  eyes  languish  and  melt  with  that  air  of 
mild  resignation,  the  quivering  shadow  of 
the  eyelashes  trembles  thus  upon  her  cheek! 
That  is  accurate  and  it  is  not  accurate.  What 
does  it  lack  ?  A  mere  nothing,  but  that  no- 
thing is  everything.  You  produce  the  appear- 
ance of  life,  but  you  do  not  express  its 
overflow,  that  indefinable  something  which 
perhaps  is  the  soul,  and  which  floats  cloud- 
like  upon  the  outer  envelope;  in  a  word,  that 
flower  of  life  which  Titian  and  Raphael  dis- 
covered. 

"  Starting  from  the  farthest  point  that  you 
have  reached,  an  excellent  painting  might  per- 
haps be  executed;  but  you  grow  weary  too 
soon.  The  tommon  herd  admires,  but  the 
connoisseur  smiles.  O  Mabuse,  O  my  mas- 
ter," added  this  extraordinary  individual,  "you 
are  a  thief;  you  carried  life  away  with  you ! — 
However,"  he  continued,  "this  canvas  is 
worth  more  than  the  painting  of  that  mounte- 
bank of  a  Rubens,  with  his  mountains  of 

[18] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

Flemish  flesh  powdered  with  vermillion,  his 
waves  of  red  hair,  and  his  wilderness  of 
colours.  At  all  events,  you  have  here  colour- 
ing, drawing,  and  sentiment,  the  three  essen- 
tial parts  of  art." 

"But  that  saint  is  sublime,  my  good 
man!  "  cried  the  young  man,  in  a  loud  voice, 
emerging  from  a  profound  reverie.  "Those 
two  figures,  of  the  saint  and  the  boatman, 
have  a  delicacy  of  expression  utterly  unknown 
to  the  Italian  painters;  I  don't  know  a  single 
one  of  them  who  could  have  achieved  the 
hesitation  of  the  boatman." 

"Does  this  little  knave  belong  to  you?" 
Porbus  asked  the  old  man. 

"Alas!  pray  excuse  my  presumption,  mas- 
ter," replied  the  neophyte,  blushing.  "  I  am  a 
stranger,  a  dauber  by  instinct,  only  lately  ar- 
rived in  this  city,  the  source  of  all  know- 
ledge." 

"To  work!"  said  Porbus,  handing  him  a 
pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper. 

In  a  twinkling  the  stranger  copied  the  Mary. 

119] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"O-ho!"  cried  the  old  man.  "Your 
name?" 

The  young  man  wrote  at  the  foot  of  the 
drawing:  Nicolas  Poussin. 

"That  is  not  bad  for  a  beginner,"  said  the 
strange  creature  who  harangued  so  wildly. 
"  I  see  that  we  can  safely  talk  painting  before 
you.  I  don't  blame  you  for  admiring  Porbus's 
saint.  It  is  a  masterpiece  for  the  world,  and 
only  those  who  are  initiated  in  the  most  pro- 
found secrets  of  art  can  discover  wherein  it 
offends.  But  since  you  are  worthy  of  the 
lesson  and  capable  of  understanding,  I  will 
show  you  how  little  is  necessary  to  complete 
the  work.  Be  all  eyes  and  all  attention;  such 
an  opportunity  for  instruction  will  never  occur 
again  perhaps. —  Your  palette,  Porbus!  " 

Porbus  went  to  fetch  palette  and  brushes. 
The  little  old  man  turned  up  his  sleeves  with 
a  convulsive  movement,  passed  his  thumb 
over  the  palette  laden  with  colours,  which 
Porbus  handed  to  him,  and  snatched  rather 
than  took  from  his  hands  a  handful  of  brushes 

[20] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

of  all  sizes;  his  pointed  beard  twitched  with 
the  mighty  efforts  that  denoted  the  concup- 
iscence of  an  amorous  imagination.  As  he 
dipped  his  brush  in  the  paint,  he  grumbled  be- 
tween his  teeth: 

"  These  colours  are  good  for  nothing  but  to 
throw  out  of  the  window,  with  the  man  who 
made  them !  They  are  disgustingly  crude  and 
false !  How  can  one  paint  with  such  things  ?  " 

Then,  with  feverish  vivacity,  he  dipped  the 
point  of  the  brush  in  different  mounds  of 
colour,  sometimes  running  through  the  entire 
scale  more  rapidly  than  a  cathedral  organist 
runs  over  his  keyboard  in  playing  the  O  Filii 
at  Easter. 

Porbus  and  Poussin  stood  like  statues,  each 
on  one  side  of  the  canvas,  absorbed  in  the 
most  intense  contemplation. 

"You  see,  young  man,"  said  the  old  man, 
without  turning  — "you  see  how,  by  means 
of  three  or  four  touches  and  a  little  blue  var- 
nish, one  can  make  the  air  circulate  around 
the  head  of  the  poor  saint,  who  surely  must 

[211 


Honore  de  Balzac 


be  stifling  and  feel  imprisoned  in  that  dense 
atmosphere!  See  how  that  drapery  flutters 
about  now,  and  how  readily  one  can  realise 
that  the  wind  is  raising  it!  Formerly  it  looked 
like  starched  linen  held  in  place  by  pins.  Do 
you  see  how  perfectly  the  satinlike  gloss 
with  which  I  have  touched  the  breast  repre- 
sents the  supple  plumpness  of  a  maiden's 
flesh,  and  how  the  mixture  of  reddish  brown 
and  ochre  warms  the  gray  coldness  of  that 
tall  ghost,  in  which  the  blood  congealed  in- 
stead of  flowing  ?  Young  man,  young  man, 
what  I  am  showing  you  now,  no  master 
could  teach  you!  Mabuse  alone  possessed 
the  secret  of  imparting  life  to  figures.  Mabuse 
had  but  one  pupil,  and  that  was  I.  I  have 
had  none,  and  I  am  growing  old!  You  have 
intelligence  enough  to  guess  the  rest  from 
this  glimpse  that  I  give  you." 

While  he  spoke,  the  strange  old  man  touched 
all  the  parts  of  the  picture :  here  two  strokes 
of  the  brush  and  there  only  one;  but  always 
so  opportunely  that  one  would 'have  said  that 

T221 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

it  was  a  new  painting,  but  a  painting  drenched 
with  light.  He  worked  with  such  impassioned 
zeal  that  the  perspiration  stood  upon  his  high 
forehead;  he  moved  so  swiftly,  with  such 
impatient,  jerky  little  movements,  that  to 
young  Poussin  it  seemed  as  if  there  must  be 
in  that  strange  man's  body  a  demon  acting 
through  his  hands  and  guiding  them  erratic- 
ally, against  his  will.  The  superhuman  gleam 
of  his  eyes,  the  convulsions  which  seemed  to 
be  the  effect  of  resistance,  gave  to  that  idea  a 
semblance  of  truth,  which  was  certain  to  act 
upon  a  youthful  imagination.  The  old  man 
worked  on,  saying: 

"  PafT  !  paff  !  paff  !  this  is  how  we  do  it, 
young  man!  Come,  my  little  touches,  warm 
up  this  frigid  tone  for  me!  Come,  come! 
pon!  pon!  pon!"  he  said,  touching  up  the 
points  where  he  had  indicated  a  lack  of  life, 
effacing  by  a  few  daubs  of  paint  the  differ- 
ences of  temperament,  and  restoring  the  unity 
of  tone  which  a  warm-blooded  Egyptian  de- 
manded. "You  see,  my  boy,  it  is  only  the 

[831 


Honore  de  Balzac 


last  stroke  of  the  brush  that  counts.  Porbus 
has  given  a  hundred,  but  I  give  only  one. 
Nobody  gives  us  credit  for  what  is  under- 
neath. Be  sure  to  remember  that!  " 

At  last  the  demon  paused,  and,  turning  to 
Porbus  and  Poussin,  who  were  dumb  with 
admiration,  he  said  to  them : 

"This  doesn't  come  up  to  my  Belle  Noi- 
seuse;  however,  a  man  could  afford  to  put  his 
name  at  the  foot  of  such  a  work.  Yes,  I 
would  sign  it,"  he  added,  rising  and  taking  a 
mirror  in  which  he  looked  at  it.  "Now  let 
us  go  to  breakfast/'  he  said.  "Come  to  my 
house,  both  of  you.  I  have  some  smoked 
ham  and  some  good  wine!  Despite  the  evil 
times,  we  will  talk  painting.  We  are  ex- 
perts. This  little  man,"  he  added,  tapping 
Nicolas  Poussin  on  the  shoulder,  "has  a  facile 
touch." 

Noticing  the  Norman's  shabby  jacket  at 
that  moment,  he  took  from  his  belt  a  goat- 
skin purse,  opened  it,  took  out  two  gold- 
pieces  and  said,  offering  them  to  him : 

[841 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"I  will  buy  your  sketch." 

"Take  it,"  said  Porbus  to  Poussin,  seeing 
him  start  and  blush  with  shame,  for  the  young 
neophyte  had  all  the  pride  of  the  poor  man. 
"Take  it,  he  has  the  ransom  of  two  kings  in 
his  wallet." 

All  three  went  down  from  the  studio,  and, 
discoursing  on  art  as  they  walked,  bent  their 
steps  to  a  handsome  wooden  house  near  Pont 
St. -Michel,  the  decorations  of  which,  the 
knocker,  the  window-frames,  and  the  ara- 
besques, aroused  Poussin's  wondering  admir- 
ation. The  painter  in  embryo  suddenly  found 
himself  in  a  room  on  the  lower  floor,  before  a 
bright  fire,  beside  a  table  laden  with  appetis- 
ing dishes,  and,  by  incredible  good  fortune, 
in  the  company  of  two  great  artists  overflow- 
ing with  good  nature. 

"Young  man,"  said  Porbus,  seeing  that  he 
stood  in  open-mouthed  admiration  before  a 
picture,  "don't  look  at  that  canvas  too  closely, 
or  you  will  be  driven  to  despair." 

It  was  the  Adam  which  Mabuse  painted  in 

[25] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


order  to  obtain  his  release  from  the  prison  in 
which  his  creditors  kept  him  so  long.  In 
truth,  that  face  was  of  such  startling  reality 
that  Nicolas  Poussin  began  at  that  moment  to 
understand  the  true  meaning  of  the  old  man's 
confused  remarks.  The  latter  glanced  at  the 
picture  with  a  satisfied  expression,  but  with- 
out enthusiasm,  and  seemed  to  say:  "I  have 
done  better  than  that!  " 

"There  is  life  in  it,"  he  said;  "my  poor 
master  surpassed  himself;  but  it  still  lacks  a 
little  truth  in  the  background.  The  man  is 
thoroughly  alive;  he  is  about  to  rise  and  walk 
towards  us.  But  the  air,  the  sky,  the  wind, 
which  we  breathe  and  see  and  feel,  are  not 
there.  And  then  there  is  only  a  man!  Now 
the  only  man  that  ever  came  forth  from  the 
hands  of  God  ought  to  have  something  of  the 
divine,  which  he  lacks.  Mabuse  himself  said 
so  with  irritation,  when  he  was  not  drunk." 

Poussin  glanced  at  the  old  man  and  Porbus 
in  turn,  with  restless  curiosity.  He  approached 
the  latter  as  if  to  ask  him  the  name  of  their 

[26] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

host;  but  the  painter  put  his  finger  to  his 
lips  with  a  mysterious  air,  and  the  young 
man,  intensely  interested,  kept  silence,  hoping 
that  sooner  or  later  some  chance  remark  would 
enable  him  to  discover  the  name  of  his  host, 
whose  wealth  and  talent  were  sufficiently  at- 
tested by  the  respect  which  Porbus  manifested 
for  him  and  by  the  marvellous  things  collected 
in  that  room. 

Seeing  a  superb  portrait  of  a  woman  upon 
the  oaken  wainscoting,  Poussin  exclaimed: 

"What  a  beautiful  Giorgione!  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  man ;  "  you  are  look- 
ing at  one  of  my  first  daubs." 

"Tu-dieu!  then  I  must  be  in  the  house  of 
the  god  of  painting!"  said  Poussin,  ingenu- 
ously. 

The  old  man  smiled  like  one  long  familiar 
with  such  praise. 

"Master  Frenhofer !  "  said  Porbus, "could n't 
you  send  for  a  little  of  your  fine  Rhine  wine 
for  me  ?  " 

"Two  casks!"  replied  the  old  man;  "one 

[87J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


to  pay  for  the  pleasure  which  I  enjoyed  this 
morning  in  seeing  your  pretty  sinner,  and  the 
other  as  a  friendly  gift." 

"Ah!  if  I  were  not  always  ill,"  rejoined 
Porbus,  "and  if  you  would  let  me  see  your 
Belle  Noiseuse,  I  might  be  able  to  paint  a  pict- 
ure, high  and  wide  and  deep,  in  which  the 
figures  would  be  life-size." 

"Show  my  work!"  cried  the  old  man, 
intensely  excited.  "No,  no!  I  still  have  to 
perfect  it.  Yesterday,  towards  night,"  he  said, 
"I  thought  that  it  was  finished.  The  eyes 
seemed  to  me  moist,  the  flesh  quivered;  the 
tresses  of  the  hair  moved.  It  breathed!  Al- 
though I  have  discovered  the  means  of 
producing  upon  flat  canvas  the  relief  and 
roundness  of  nature,  I  realised  my  error  this 
morning,  by  daylight.  Ah!  to  attain  that 
glorious  result,  I  have  thoroughly  studied  the 
great  masters  of  colouring,  I  have  analysed  and 
raised,  layer  by  layer,  the  pictures  of  Titian, 
that  king  of  light;  like  that  sovereign  painter, 
I  have  sketched  my  figure  in  a  light  shade, 

[28) 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

with  soft,  thick  colour  —  for  shading  is  simply 
an  accident,  remember  that,  my  boy!  —  Then 
I  returned  to  my  work,  and  by  means  of  half- 
tints,  and  of  varnish,  the  transparency  of  which 
I  lessened  more  and  more,  I  made  the  shadows 
more  and  more  pronounced,  even  to  the 
deepest  blacks;  for  the  shadows  of  ordinary 
painters  are  of  a  different  nature  from  their 
light  tones;  they  are  wood,  brass,  whatever 
you  choose,  except  flesh  in  shadow.  One 
feels  that,  if  a  figure  should  change  its  posture, 
the  shaded  places  would  not  brighten,  and 
would  never  become  light.  I  have  avoided 
that  fault,  into  which  many  of  the  most  illus- 
trious artists  have  fallen,  and  in  my  work  the 
whiteness  of  the  flesh  stands  out  under  the 
darkness  of  the  deepest  shadow. 

"I  have  not,  like  a  multitude  of  ignorant 
fools,  who  fancy  that  they  draw  correctly  be- 
cause they  make  a  carefully  shaded  stroke, 
marked  distinctly  the  outer  lines  of  my  figure 
and  given  prominence  to  the  most  trivial  an- 
atomical details,  for  the  human  body  does  not 

129] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


end  in  lines.  In  that  regard,  sculptors  can 
approach  the  truth  more  nearly  than  we  can. 
Nature  demands  a  succession  of  rounded  ouU 
lines  which  shade  into  one  another.  Strictly 
speaking,  drawing  does  not  exist! — Do  not 
laugh,  young  man!  However  strange  that 
remark  may  seem  to  you,  you  will  understand 
its  meaning  some  day. — The  line  is  the  means 
by  which  man  interprets  the  effect  of  light 
upon  objects;  but  there  are  no  lines  in  nature, 
where  everything  is  full;  it  is  in  modelling 
that  one  draws,  that  is  to  say,  that  one  re- 
moves things  from  the  surroundings  in  which 
they  are;  the  distribution  of  light  alone  gives 
reality  to  the  body !  So  that  1  have  not  sharply 
outlined  the  features  ;  1  have  spread  over  the 
outlines  a  cloud  of  light,  warm  half-tints,  the 
result  being  that  one  cannot  place  one's  finger 
upon  the  exact  spot  where  the  outline  ends 
and  the  background  begins.  Seen  at  close 
quarters,  the  work  seems  cottony  and  to  lack 
precision;  but  two  yards  away,  everything 
becomes  distinct  and  stands  out;  the  body 

[80] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

moves,  the  forms  become  prominent,  and  one 
can  feel  the  air  circulating  all  about..  How- 
ever, I  am  not  satisfied  yet;  I  still  have 
doubts. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  drawn  a  single 
line;  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  attack  a 
figure  in  the  middle,  devoting  one's  self  first  to 
the  prominences  which  are  most  in  the  light, 
and  passing  then  to  the  darker  portions.  Is 
not  that  the  way  in  which  the  sun,  that  divine 
painter  of  the  universe,  proceeds?  O  Nature, 
Nature!  who  has  ever  surprised  thee  in  thy 
flights  ?  I  tell  you  that  too  much  knowledge, 
like  ignorance,  ends  in  a  negation.  I  doubt 
my  work! " 

The  old  man  paused,  then  continued: 

"F-jr  ten  years,  young  man,  I  have  been 
working,  but  what  are' ten  short  years  when 
it  is  a  question  of  contending  with  nature  ? 
We  have  no  idea  how  long  a  time  Pygmalion 
employed  in  making  the  only  statue  that  ever 
walked! " 

The  old  man  fell  into  a  profound  reverie, 

[31] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


and  sat  with  staring  eyes,  mechanically  toying 
with  his  knife. 

"He  is  conversing  with  his  spirit  now!" 
said  Porbus  in  an  undertone. 

At  that  word  Nicolas  Poussin  became  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  an  indefinable  artistic 
curiosity.  That  old  man  with  the  white  eyes, 
staring  and  torpid,  became  in  his  eyes  more 
than  a  man;  he  assumed  the  aspect  of  an  un- 
real genius  living  in  an  unknown  sphere.  He 
stirred  a  thousand  confused  ideas  in  his  mind. 
The  mental  phenomenon  of  that  species  of 
fascination  can  no  more  be  defined  than  one 
can  define  the  emotion  aroused  by  a  ballad 
which  recalls  the  fatherland  to  the  exile's 
heart.  The  contempt  which  that  old  man 
affected  to  express  for  the  most  beautiful 
works  of  art,  his  wealtTi,  his  manners,  the  de- 
ference with  which  Porbus  treated  him,  that 
work  kept  secret  so  long  —  a  work  of  patience 
and  of  genius  doubtless,  judging  by  the  head  of 
a  Virgin  which  young  Poussin  had  so  enthusi- 
astically admired,  and  which,  still  beautiful, 

[82] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

even  beside  Mabuse's  Adam,  bore  witness  to 
the  imperial  workmanship  of  one  of  the  princes 
of  art  —  everything,  in  short,  about  the  old 
man  went  beyond  the  bounds  of  human  na- 
ture. 

The  one  point  which  was  perfectly  clear  and 
manifest  to  Nicolas  Poussin's  fertile  imagina- 
tion was  a  complete  image  of  the  artistic  na- 
ture, of  that  irresponsible  nature  to  which  so 
many  powers  are  entrusted,  and  which  too 
often  misuses  them,  leading  cold  reason,  the 
honest  bourgeois,  and  even  some  experts, 
through  innumerable  rock-strewn  paths,  where 
there  is  nothing  so  far  as  they  are  concerned; 
whereas  that  white-winged  damsel,  unreason- 
ing in  her  fancies,  discovers  these  epic  poems, 
chateaux,  and  works  of  art.  A  sardonic  but 
kindly  nature;  fertile  but  sterile.  Thus,  to 
the  enthusiastic  Poussin,  that  old  man  had  be- 
come, by  an  abrupt  transfiguration,  art  itself, 
art  with  its  secrets,  its  unruly  impulses,  and  its 
reveries. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Porbus,"  Frenhofer  resumed, 

3  [33] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"I  have  failed  thus  far  to  meet  an  absolutely 
flawless  woman,  a  body  the  outlines  of  which 
are  perfectly  beautiful,  and  whose  colouring— 
But  where  is  she  to  be  found  in  real  life  ?  "  he 
asked,  interrupting  himself,  "  that  undiscover- 
able  Venus  of  the  ancients,  so  often  sought,  of 
whom  we  find  only  a  few  scattered  charms  ? 
Oh!  to  see  for  an  instant,  but  a  single  time, 
that  divine,  complete,  in  a  word,  ideal  nature, 
I  would  give  my  whole  fortune.  Aye,  I  would 
seek  thee  in  the  abode  of  the  dead,  O  divine 
beauty!  Like  Orpheus,  I  would  go  down  into 
the  hell  of  art  to  bring  life  back  thence." 

"We  may  go  away,"  said  Porbus  to  Pous- 
sin;  "he  neither  hears  nor  sees  us  now." 

"Let  us  go  to  his  studio,"  suggested  tKe 
wonder-struck  youth. 

"Oh!  the  old  fellow  knows  how  to  keep 
people  out.  His  treasures  are  too  well  guarded 
for  us  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  them.  I  have 
not  awaited  your  suggestion  and  your  long- 
ing before  attacking  the  mystery." 

"So  there  is  a  mystery  ?" 

[34] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"  Yes,"  Porbus  replied.  "  Old  Frenhofer  is 
the  only  pupil  whom  Mabuse  would  ever 
consent  to  take.  Having  become  his  friend, 
his  saviour,  his  father,  Frenhofer  sacrificed 
the  greater  part  of  his  property  to  humour 
Mabuse's  passions;  in  exchange  Mabuse  be- 
queathed to  him  the  secret  of  relief,  the  power 
of  imparting  to  figures  that  extraordinary  ap- 
pearance of  life,  that  touch  of  nature,  which 
is  our  never-ending  despair,  but  of  which  he 
was  such  a  thorough  master  that  one  day, 
having  sold  and  drunk  the  flowered  damask 
which  he  was  to  wear  on  the  occasion  of 
Charles  V.'s  entry  into  Paris,  he  attended  his 
master  in  a  garment  of  paper  painted  to  repre- 
sent damask.  The  peculiar  brilliancy  of  the 
fabric  worn  by  Mabuse  surprised  the  Emperor, 
who,  when  he  attempted  to  compliment  the 
old  drunkard's  patron,  discovered  the  fraud. 

"Frenhofer  is  passionately  devoted  to  our 
art,  and  he  looks  higher  and  farther  ahead 
than  other  painters.  He  has  given  much  pro- 
found thought  to  the  subject  of  colouring  and 

[35] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


to  the  absolute  accuracy  of  lines;  but  he  has 
studied  so  much  that  he  has  reached  the  point 
where  he  is  uncertain  of  the  very  object  of 
his  studies.  In  his  moments  of  despair  he 
declares  that  drawing  does  not  exist  and  that 
only  geometrical  figures  can  be  made  with 
lines;  which  is  going  beyond  the  truth,  for 
with  lines  and  with  black,  which  is  not  a 
colour,  a  human  figure  maybe  drawn;  which 
proves  that  our  art,  like  nature,  is  made  up  of 
an  infinite  number  of  elements:  drawing  fur- 
nishes a  skeleton,  colour  gives  life;  but  life 
without  the  skeleton  is  much  less  complete 
than  the  skeleton  without  life.  In  short,  there 
is  one  thing  which  is  more  true  than  any  of 
these,  and  that  is  that  practice  and  observa- 
tion are  everything  with  a  painter,  and  that, 
if  reason  and  poetic  sense  quarrel  with  the 
brush,  we  arrive  at  doubt,  like  our  excellent 
friend  here,  who  is  as  much  madman  as 
painter.  A  sublime  artist,  he  was  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  born  rich,  which  permitted  him 
to  go  astray;  do  not  imitate  him!  Work! 

[36] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

Painters  ought  not  to  meditate,  except  with 
brush  in  hand." 

"We  will  find  our  way  there!  "  cried  Pous- 
sin,  no  longer  listening  to  Porbus,  and  un- 
deterred by  doubts. 

Porbus  smiled  at  the  young  stranger's  en- 
thusiasm, and,  when  they  parted,  invited  him 
to  come  to  see  him. 

Nicolas  Poussin  walked  slowly  back  to 
Rue  de  la  Harpe,  and  passed,  unperceiving, 
the  modest  house  in  which  he  lodged.  As- 
cending his  wretched  staircase  with  anxious 
haste,  he  reached  a  room  high  up  beneath  a 
roof  supported  by  pillars,  a  simple  and  airy 
style  of  architecture  found  in  the  houses  of 
old  Paris.  Beside  the  single,  dark  window  of 
that  room  sat  a  girl,  who,  when  she  heard 
the  door,  sprang  at  once  to  her  feet  with  a 
loving  impulse;  she  recognised  the  painter  by 
the  way  he  raised  the  latch. 

"What 's  the  matter  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  matter — the  matter — "  he  cried, 
choking  with  joy;  "the  matter  is  that  I  have 

[37] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


come  to  feel  that  I  am  a  painter.  I  have 
always  doubted  myself  before,  but  this  morn- 
ing I  believe  in  myself!  I  tell  you,  Gillette, 
we  shall  be  rich,  happy!  There  is  gold  in 
these  brushes." 

But  suddenly  he  ceased  to  speak.  His 
strong  and  serious  face  lost  its  joyous  ex- 
pression when  he  compared  the  vastness  of 
his  hopes  with  the  paucity  of  his  resources. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  pieces  of  com- 
mon paper  on  which  were  sketches  in  pencil. 
He  owned  no  clean  canvases.  Paints  com- 
manded a  high  price  in  those  days,  and  the 
poor  young  mail's  palette  was  almost  bare. 
In  the  depths  of  his  poverty  he  possessed  and 
was  conscious  of  an  incredible  store  of  cour- 
age and  a  superabundance  of  all-consuming 
genius.  Brought  to  Paris  by  a  gentleman 
who  was  a  friend  of  his,  or  perhaps  by  his 
own  talent,  he  had  almost  immediately  fallen 
in  with  a  mistress,  one  of  those  noble  and 
devoted  souls  who  suffer  beside  a  great  man, 
espouse  his  troubles,  and  try  to  understand 

[38] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

his  caprices;  strong  in  poverty  and  love,  as 
other  women  are  fearless  in  bearing  the  bur- 
den of  luxury  and  in  parading  their  lack  of 
feeling.  The  smile  that  played  about  Gillette's 
lips  diffused  a  golden  light  through  that  garret, 
and  overspread  the  sky  with  brightness.  The 
sun  did  not  always  shine,  whereas  she  was 
always  there,  sedate  in  her  passion,  clinging 
to  her  happiness  and  her  suffering,  encour- 
aging the  genius  which  overflowed  in  love 
before  seizing  upon  art. 

"Listen,  Gillette — come  here." 

The  light-hearted,  obedient  girl  jumped 
upon  the  painter's  knees.  She  was  all  grace, 
all  beauty,  lovely  as  a  spring  day,  adorned  by 
all  womanly  charms,  and  illumining  them 
with  the  glow  of  a  lovely  soul. 

"  O  God !  "  he  cried,  "  I  shall  never  dare  to 
tell  her." 

"A  secret?"  said  she;  "I  insist  upon 
knowing  it." 

Poussin  seemed  lost  in  thought. 

et  Speak,  I  say." 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"Gillette — poor,  beloved  darling!" 

"Ah!  you  want  something  of  me,  do 
you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"If  you  want  me  to  pose  for  you  as  I  did 
the  other  day,"  she  said,  with  a  little  pout, 
"I  shall  never  consent;  for  at  those  times 
your  eyes  have  nothing  at  all  to  say  to  me. 
You  forget  all  about  me,  and  yet  you  look  at 
me." 

"Would  you  prefer  to  see  me  painting 
another  woman  ?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  said,  "if  she  was  very 
ugly." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Poussin,  in  a  serious  tone, 
"suppose  that,  for  any  future  glory,  to  make 
me  a  great  painter,  it  were  necessary  for  you 
to  pose  for  another  artist  ?  " 

"You  can  test  me  all  you  choose,"  she 
replied.  "You  know  that  I  would  not  go." 

Poussin  let  his  head  fall  on  his  breast,  like 
one  who  surrenders  to  a  joy  or  a  sorrow  that 
is  too  great  for  his  heart. 

[401 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"Listen,"  said  she,  plucking  at  the  sleeve 
of  Poussin's  threadbare  doublet,  "I  have  told 
you,  Nick,  that  I  would  give  my  life  for  you; 
but  I  never  promised  to  give  up  my  love 
while  I  am  alive." 

"  Give  it  up  ?  "  cried  the  young  artist. 

"If  I  should  show  myself  like  that  to 
another  man,  you  would  cease  to  love  me, 
and  I  should  deem  myself  unworthy  of  you.  Is 
it  not  a  most  simple  and  natural  thing  to  obey 
your  whims  ?  In  spite  of  myself,  I  am  happy, 
aye,  proud,  to  do  your  dear  will.  But  for 
another  man  —  ah,  no!" 

"  Forgive  me,  my  Gillette,"  cried  the  painter, 
throwing  himself  at  her  feet.  "  I  prefer  to  be 
beloved  rather  than  famous.  In  my  eyes  you 
are  fairer  than  wealth  and  honours.  Go,  throw 
away  my  brushes,  burn  these  sketches.  I 
have  made  a  mistake.  My  vocation  is  to  love 
you.  I  am  no  painter,  I  am  a  lover.  Away 
with  art  and  all  its  secrets!  " 

She  gazed  admiringly  at  him,  happy,  over- 
joyed. She  was  queen;  she  felt  instinctively 


Honore  de  Balzac 


that  art  was  forgotten  for  her,  and  cast  at  her 
feet  like  a  grain  of  incense. 

"  And  yet  it  is  only  an  old  man,"  continued 
Poussin.  "  He  could  see  only  the  woman  in 
you  —  you  are  so  perfect!  " 

"One  must  needs  love,"  she  cried,  ready  to 
sacrifice  the  scruples  of  her  love  to  repay  her 
lover  for  all  the  sacrifices  that  he  made  for  her. 
"But,"  she  added,  "it  would  be  my  ruin. 
Ah!  ruin  for  you  —  yes,  that  would  be  very 
lovely!  But  you  will  forget  me!  Oh!  what 
a  wicked  idea  this  is  of  yours!  " 

"I  conceived  the  idea,  and  I  love  you,"  he 
said  with  a  sort  of  contrition;  "but  am  I  for 
that  reason  a  villain  ?  " 

"  Let  us  consult  Father  Hardouin,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  no!  let  it  be  a  secret  between  us." 

"  Very  good,  I  will  go.  But  do  not  be 
there,"  she  cried.  "Stay  at  the  door,  with 
your  dagger  drawn;  if  I  cry  out,  come  in  and 
kill  the  painter." 

With  no  eyes  for  aught  but  his  art,  Poussin 
threw  his  arms  about  Gillette. 

[42] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"He  no  longer  loves  me!  "  thought  Gillette, 
when  she  was  alone. 

Already  she  repented  her  decision.  But  she 
was  soon  seized  by  a  terror  more  painful  than 
her  regret;  she  strove  to  drive  away  a  shock- 
ing thought  that  stole  into  her  mind.  She 
fancied  that  she  already  loved  the  painter  less, 
because  she  suspected  that  he  was  less  es- 
timable than  she  had  hitherto  believed. 

II 

CATHERINE   LESCAULT 

THREE  months  after  the  meeting  of  Poussin 
and  Porbus,  the  latter  went  to  see  Mas- 
ter Frenhofer.  The  old  man  was  then  in  the 
depths  of  one  of  those  periods  of  profound  and 
sudden  discouragement,  the  cause  of  which, 
if  we  are  to  believe  the  mathematicians  of 
medicine,  consists  in  bad  digestion,  the  wind, 
the  heat,  or  some  disturbance  in  the  hypo- 
chondriac region;  and,  according  to  the  spirit- 
ualists, in  the  imperfection  of  our  moral  nature. 
The  good  man  had  simply  tired  himself  out 

[43] 


Honord  de  Balzac 


in  finishing  his  mysterious  picture.  He  was 
languidly  reclining  in  an  enormous  chair  of 
carved  oak,  upholstered  in  black  leather;  and 
without  changing  his  depressed  attitude,  he 
darted  at  Porbus  the  glance  of  a  man  who 
had  determined  to  make  the  best  of  his 
ennui. 

"Well,  master,"  said  Porbus,  "was  the 
ultramarine,  that  you  went  to  Bruges  for,  very 
bad?  Haven't  you  been  able  to  grind  our 
new  white  ?  Is  your  oil  poor,  or  are  your 
brushes  unmanageable?" 

"  Alas!  "  cried  the  old  man,  "  I  thought  for 
a  moment  that  my  work  was  finished;  but  I 
certainly  have  gone  astray  in  some  details, 
and  my  mind  will  not  be  at  rest  until  I  have 
solved  my  doubts.  I  have  almost  decided  to 
travel,  to  go  to  Turkey,  to  Greece,  and  to 
Asia,  in  search  of  a  model,  and  to  compare 
my  picture  with  nature  in  different  climes.  It 
may  be  that  I  have  up-stairs,"  he  continued 
with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  "Nature  herself. 
Sometimes  I  am  almost  afraid  that  a  breath 

[44] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

will  awaken  that  woman  and  that  she  will 
disappear." 

Then  he  rose  abruptly,  as  if  to  go. 

"  Ah!  "  replied  Porbus;  "  I  have  come  just 
in  time  to  save  you  the  expense  and  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey." 

"How  so?"  asked  Frenhofer  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Young  Poussin  is  loved  by  a  woman 
whose  incomparable  beauty  is  absolutely 
without  a  flaw.  But,  my  dear  master,  if  he 
consents  to  lend  her  to  you,  you  must  at  least 
let  us  see  your  picture." 

The  old  man  stood,  perfectly  motionless,  in 
a  state  of  utter  stupefaction. 

"What!"  he  cried  at  last,  in  a  heartrend- 
ing voice,  "show  my  creation,  my  spouse? 
Tear  away  the  veil  with  which  I  have  mod- 
estly covered  my  happiness  ?  Why,  that 
would  be  the  most  shocking  prostitution! 
For  ten  years  I  have  lived  with  that  woman; 
she  is  mine,  mine  alone,  she  loves  me.  Does 
she  not  smile  at  every  stroke  of  the  brush 

[45] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


which  I  give  her  ?  She  has  a  soul,  the  soul 
with  which  I  have  endowed  her.  She  would 
blush  if  other  eyes  than  mine  should  rest  upon 
her.  Show  her!  Where  is  the  husband,  the 
lover,  base  enough  to  lend  his  wife  to  dis- 
honour ?  When  you  paint  a  picture  for  the 
court,  you  do  not  put  your  whole  soul  into  it, 
you  sell  to  the  courtiers  nothing  more  than 
coloured  mannikins.  My  painting  is  not  a 
painting;  it  is  a  sentiment,  a  passion!  Born 
in  my  studio,  it  must  remain  there  unsullied, 
and  can  not  come  forth  until  it  is  clothed. 
Poesy  and  women  never  abandon  themselves 
naked  to  any  but  their  lovers!  Do  we  possess 
Raphael's  model,  Ariosto's  Angelica,  or  Dante's 
Beatrice?  No!  We  see  only  their  shapes. 
Very  well;  the  work  which  I  have  up-stairs 
under  lock  and  key  is  an  exception  in  our  art. 
It  is  not  a  canvas,  it  is  a  woman ;  a  woman 
with  whom  I  weep,  and  laugh,  and  talk,  and 
think.  Do  you  expect  me  suddenly  to  lay 
aside  a  joy  that  has  lasted  ten  years,  as  one 
lays  aside  a  cloak  ?  Do  you  expect  me  sud- 

[46] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

denly  to  cease  to  be  father,  lover,  and  God  ? 
That  woman  is  not  a  creature,  she  is  a  crea- 
tion. Let  your  young  man  come  —  I  will 
give  him  my  wealth ;  I  will  give  him  pictures 
by  Correggio,  Michelangelo,  or  Titian;  I  will 
kiss  his  footprints  in  the  dust;  but  make  him 
my  rival?  Shame!  Ah!  I  am  even  more 
lover  than  painter.  Yes,  I  shall  have  the 
strength  to  burn  my  Belle  Noiseuse  when  I 
breathe  my  last;  but  to  force  her  to  endure 
the  glance  of  a  man,  of  a  young  man,  of  a 
painter?  No,  no!  I  would  kill  to-morrow  the 
man  who  should  sully  her  with  a  look!  I 
would  kill  you  on  the  instant,  my  friend,  if  you 
did  not  salute  her  on  your  knees !  Do  you  ex- 
pect me  now  to  subject  my  idol  to  the  insens- 
ible glances  and  absurd  criticisms  of  fools? 
Ah!  love  is  a  mystery,  it  lives  only  in  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  heart,  and  all  is  lost 
•when  a  man  says,  even  to  his  friend :  '  This 
is  she  whom  I  love! ' ' 

The  old  man  seemed  to  have  become  young 
again;   his  eyes  gleamed  with  life;   his  pale 

[47] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


cheeks  flushed  a  bright  red,  and  his  hands 
shook.  Porbus,  surprised  by  the  passionate 
force  with  which  the  words  were  spoken,  did 
not  know  what  reply  to  make  to  an  emotion 
no  less  novel  than  profound.  Was  Frenhofer 
sane  or  mad  ?  Was  he  under  the  spell  of  an 
artistic  caprice,  or  did  the  ideas  which  he  had 
expressed  proceed  from  that  strange  fanati- 
cism produced  in  us  by  the  long  gestation  of 
a  great  work  ?  Could  one  hope  ever  to  come 
to  an  understanding  with  that  extraordinary 
passion  ? 

Engrossed  by  all  these  thoughts,  Porbus 
said  to  the  old  man: 

"  But  is  it  not  woman  for  woman  ?  Will 
not  Poussin  abandon  his  mistress  to  your 
eyes  ?  " 

"What  mistress?"  rejoined  Frenhofer. 
"She  will  betray  him  sooner  or  later.  Mine 
will  always  be  faithful  to  me!  " 

"Very  well!"  said  Porbus,  "let  us  say  no 
more  about  it.  But,  perhaps,  before  you  find, 
even  in  Asia,  a  woman  so  lovely,  so  perfect 

[48] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

as  is  she  of  whom  I  speak,  you  will  die  with- 
out finishing  your  picture." 

"Ah!  it  is  finished,"  said  Frenhofer.  "Who- 
ever should  see  it  would  think  that  he  was 
looking  at  a  woman  lying  upon  a  velvet  couch, 
behind  a  curtain.  Beside  her  is  a  golden  tri- 
pod containing  perfumes.  You  would  be 
tempted  to  seize  the  tassel  of  the  cords  which 
hold  the  curtain,  and  you  would  fancy  that 
you  saw  the  bosom  of  Catherine  Lescault,  a 
beautiful  courtesan  called  La  Belle  Noiseuse, 
rise  and  fall  with  the  movement  of  her  breath. 
However,  I  should  like  to  be  certain " 

"Oh!  go  to  Asia,"  Porbus  replied,  as  he 
detected  a  sort  of  hesitation  in  Frenhofer's 
expression. 

And  Porbus  walked  towards  the  door  of  the 
room. 

At  that  moment  Gillette  and  Nicolas  Poussin 
arrived  at  Frenhofer's  house.  When  the  girl 
was  about  to  enter,  she  stepped  back,  as  if 
she  were  oppressed  by  some  sudden  presenti- 
ment. 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"  Why  have  I  come  here,  pray  ?  "  she  asked 
her  lover  in  a  deep  voice,  gazing  at  him  stead- 
fastly. 

"Gillette,  I  left  you  entirely  at  liberty,  and 
I  mean  to  obey  you  in  everything.  You  are 
my  conscience  and  my  renown.  Go  back  to 
the  house;  I  shall  be  happier  perhaps  than  if 
you " 

"  Do  I  belong  to  myself  when  you  speak  to 
me  thus  ?  Oh  no!  I  am  nothing  more  than  a 
child.  Come,"  she  added,  apparently  making 
a  mighty  effort;  "if  our  love  dies,  and  if  I 
plant  in  my  heart  a  never-ending  regret,  will 
not  your  fame  be  the  reward  of  my  compli- 
ance with  your  wishes  ?  Let  us  go  in;  it  will 
be  like  living  again  to  be  always  present  as  a 
memory  on  your  palette." 

As  they  opened  the  door  of  the  house,  the 
two  lovers  met  Porbus,  who,  startled  by  the 
beauty  of  Gillette,  whose  eyes  were  then 
filled  with  tears,  seized  her,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  was,  and  said,  leading  her 
into  the  old  man's  presence: 

{50J 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"Look!  is  she  not  above  all  the  master- 
pieces on  earth  ?  " 

Frenhofer  started.  Gillette  stood  there  in 
the  ingenuous  and  unaffected  attitude  of  a 
young  Georgian  girl,  innocent  and  timid,  ab- 
ducted by  brigands  and  offered  for  sale  to 
a  slave-merchant.  A  modest  flush  tinged  her 
cheeks,  she  lowered  her  eyes,  her  hands  were 
hanging  at  her  side,  her  strength  seemed  to 
abandon  her,  and  tears  protested  against  the 
violence  done  to  her  modesty.  At  that  mo- 
ment Poussin,  distressed  beyond  words  be- 
cause he  had  taken  that  lovely  pearl  from  his 
garret,  cursed  himself.  He  became  more  lover 
than  artist,  and  innumerable  scruples  tortured 
his  heart  when  he  saw  the  old  man's  kindling 
eye,  as,  in  accordance  with  the  habit  of  paint- 
ers, he  mentally  disrobed  the  girl,  so  to  speak, 
divining  her  most  secret  forms.  Thereupon 
the  young  man  reverted  to  the  savage  jealousy 
of  true  love. 

"Let  us  go,  Gillette,"  he  cried. 

At  that  tone,  at  that  outcry,   his  mistress 

[51] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


looked  up  at  him  in  rapture,  saw  his  face  and 
ran  into  his  arms. 

"Ah!  you  do  love  me  then  ?"  she  replied, 
melting  into  tears. 

Although  she  had  mustered  energy  to  im- 
pose silence  upon  her  suffering,  she  lacked 
strength  to  conceal  her  joy. 

"Oh!  leave  her  with  me  for  a  moment," 
said  the  old  painter,  "and  you  may  compare 
her  to  my  Catherine.  Yes,  I  consent. " 

There  was  love  in  Frenhofer's  cry,  too.  He 
seemed  to  be  acting  the  part  of  a  coquette  for 
his  counterfeit  woman,  and  to  enjoy  in  ad- 
vance the  triumph  which  the  beauty  of  his 
creation  would  certainly  win  over  that  of  a 
girl  of  flesh  and  blood. 

"Do  not  let  him  retract!"  cried  Porbus, 
bringing  his  hand  down  on  Poussin's  shoul- 
der. "The  fruits  of  love  soon  pass  away, 
those  of  art  are  immortal." 

"In  his  eyes,"  retorted  Gillette,  looking 
earnestly  at  Poussin  and  Porbus,  "in  his  eyes 
am  I  nothing  more  than  a  woman  ?" 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

She  tossed  her  head  proudly;  but  when, 
after  a  flashing  glance  at  Frenhofer,  she  saw 
her  lover  gazing  at  the  portrait  which  he  had 
formerly  mistaken  for  a  Giorgione,  she  said : 

"Ah!  let  us  go  up!  He  never  looked  at 
me  like  that." 

"Old  man,"  said  Poussin,  roused  from  his 
meditation  by  Gillette's  voice,  "look  at  this 
sword :  I  will  bury  it  in  your  heart  at  the  first 
word  of  complaint  that  this  girl  utters;  I  will 
set  fire  to  your  house  and  no  one  shall  leave 
it!  Do  you  understand  ?" 

Nicolas  Poussin's  face  was  dark,  and  his 
voice  was  terrible.  The  young  painter's  atti- 
tude, and  above  all  his  gesture,  comforted 
Gillette,  who  almost  forgave  him  for  sacrific- 
ing her  to  painting  and  to  his  glorious  future. 
Porbus  and  Poussin  remained  at  the  door  of 
the  studio,  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 
Although,  at  first,  the  painter  of  Mary  the 
Egyptian  indulged  in  an  exclamation  or  two : 
"Ah!  she  is  undressing;  he  is  telling  her  to 
stand  in  the  light;  now  he  is  comparing  her 

[631 


Honore  de  Balzac 


with  the  other!"  he  soon  held  his  peace  at 
the  aspect  of  Poussin,  whose  face  was  pro- 
foundly wretched;  and  although  the  old  paint- 
ers had  none  of  those  scruples  which  seem  so 
trivial  in  the  presence  of  art,  he  admired  them, 
they  were  so  attractive  and  so  innocent.  The 
young  man  had  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his 
dagger  and  his  ear  almost  glued  to  the  door. 
The  two  men,  standing  thus  in  the  darkness, 
resembled  two  conspirators  awaiting  the  mo- 
ment to  strike  down  -a  tyrant. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  cried  the  old  man, 
radiant  with  joy.  "My  work  is  perfect,  and 
now  I  can  show  it  with  pride.  Never  will 
painter,  brushes,  colours,  canvas,  and  light 
produce  a  rival  to  Catherine  Lescault,  the 
beautiful  courtesan!  " 

Impelled  by  the  most  intense  curiosity,  Por- 
bus  and  Poussin  hurried  to  the  centre  of  an 
enormous  studio  covered  with  dust,  where 
everything  was  in  disorder,  and  where  they 
saw  pictures  hanging  on  the  walls  here  and 
there.  They  paused  at  first  in  front  of  a  life- 

[54] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

size  figure  of  a  woman,  half  nude,  which 
aroused  their  admiration. 

"Oh,  don't  pay  any  attention  to  that,"  said 
Frenhofer;  "that  is  a  sketch  that  I  dashed  off 
to  study  a  pose;  it  is  worth  nothing  as  a  pict- 
ure. There  are  some  of  my  mistakes,"  he 
continued,  pointing  to  a  number  of  fascinating 
compositions  hanging  on  the  walls  about  them. 

At  those  words,  Porbus  and  Poussin,  thun- 
derstruck by  his  contempt  for  such  works, 
looked  about  for  the  famous  portrait,  but 
could  not  discover  it. 

"Well,  there  it  is!  "  said  the  old  man,  whose 
hair  was  dishevelled,  whose  face  was  inflamed 
by  superhuman  excitement,  whose  eyes  spar- 
kled, and  who  panted  like  a  young  man  drunk 
with  love.  "Aha!"  he  cried,  "you  did  not 
expect  such  absolute  perfection!  You  are 
before  a  woman,  and  you  are  looking  for  a 
picture.  There  is  so  much  depth  on  this  can- 
vas, the  air  is  so  real,  that  you  cannot  dis- 
tinguish it  from  the  air  that  surrounds  us. 
Where  is  art?  Lost,  vanished!  Behold  the 

156] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


actual  form  of  a  young  girl.  Have  I  not  ob- 
tained to  perfection  the  colour,  the  sharpness 
of  the  line  which  seems  to  bound  the  body  ? 
Is  it  not  the  same  phenomenon  presented  by 
objects  in  the  atmosphere,  as  well  as  by  fishes 
in  the  water?  Observe  how  the  outlines 
stand  out  from  the  background !  Does  it  not 
seem  to  you  that  you  could  pass  your  hand 
over  that  back  ?  Why,  for  seven  years  I 
studied  the  effects  of  the  conjunction  of  light 
and  of  objects.  And  that  hair,  does  not  the 
light  fairly  inundate  it?  Why,  she  actually 
breathed,  I  believe! — Look  at  that  bosom! 
Ah!  who  would  not  adore  her  on  his  knees? 
The  flesh  quivers.  She  is  going  to  rise — 
wait!" 

"Can  you  see  anything?"  Poussin  asked 
Porbus. 

"No.     And  you?" 

"Nothing." 

The  two  painters  left  the  old  man  to  his 
dreams,  and  looked  to  see  whether  the  light, 
falling  straight  upon  the  canvas  to  which  he 

[56] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

was  pointing,  did  not  efface  all  the  lines. 
They  examined  the  picture  from  the  right, 
from  the  left,  and  in  front,  alternately  stooping 
and  rising. 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  really  canvas,"  said  Fren- 
hofer,  mistaking  the  purpose  of  that  careful 
scrutiny.  "See,  here  is  the  frame  and  the 
easel,  and  here  are  my  colours  and  my 
brushes." 

And  he  seized  a  brush  and  handed  it  to 
them  with  an  artless  gesture. 

"The  old  villain  is  making  sport  of  us," 
said  Poussin,  returning  to  his  position  in  front 
of  the  alleged  picture.  "I  can  see  nothing 
but  a  confused  mass  of  colours,  surrounded  by 
a  multitude  of  curious  lines  which  form  a  wall 
of  painting." 

"We  were  mistaken;  look!"  replied 
Porbus. 

On  going  nearer,  they  saw  in  the  corner  of 
the  canvas  the  end  of  a  bare  foot  emerging 
from  that  chaos  of  vague  colours  and  shades, 
that  sort  of  shapeless  mist;  but  a  most  lovely, 

[57] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


a  living  foot!  They  stood  speechless  with 
admiration  before  that  fragment,  which  had 
escaped  a  slow,  relentless,  incomprehensible 
destraction.  That  foot  was  like  a  bust  of 
Venus  in  Parian  marble,  rising  amid  the  ruins 
of  a  burned  city. 

"There  is  a  woman  underneath!"  cried 
Porbus,  calling  Poussin's  attention  to  the  coats 
of  paint  which  the  old  painter  had  laid  on  on.e 
after  another,  thinking  that  he  was  perfecting 
his  work. 

The  two  artists  turned  impulsively  towards 
Frenhofer,  beginning  to  understand,  although 
but  vaguely,  the  state  of  ecstasy  in  which  he 
lived. 

"He  acts  in  perfect  good  faith,"  said 
Porbus. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  said  the  old  man,  rous- 
ing himself,  "one  must  have  faith,  faith  in 
art,  and  must  live  a  long  while  with  his  work, 
to  produce  such  a  creation.  Some  of  those 
shadows  have  cost  me  many  hours  of  toil. 
See,  on  the  cheek,  just  below  the  eye,  there 

[58] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

is  a  faint  penumbra,  which,  if  you  notice  it  in 
nature,  will  seem  to  you  almost  beyond  re- 
production. Well,  do  you  think  that  that 
effect  did  not  cost  me  unheard-of  trouble  ? 
But  look  closely  at  my  work,  my  dear  Porbus, 
and  you  will  understand  better  what  I  said  to 
you  as  to  the  method  of  treating  modelling 
and  outlines.  Look  at  the  light  on  the  breast, 
and  see  how,  by  a  succession  of  strongly  em- 
phasised touches  and  retouches,  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  reproducing  the  real  light,  and  in 
combining  it  with  the  polished  whiteness  of 
the  light  tones;  and  how  by  the  opposite 
means,  by  effacing  the  lumps  and  the  rough- 
ness of  the  colours,  I  have  been  able,  by  softly 
retouching  the  outline  of  my  figure,  drowned 
in  the  half-tint,  to  take  away  even  a  sug- 
gestion of  drawing  and  of  artificial  means, 
and  to  give  it  the  aspect  and  the  roundness 
of  nature  itself.  Go  nearer,  and  you  will  see 
the  work  better.  At  a  distance  it  is  imper- 
ceptible. Look,  just  here  it  is  very  remark- 
able, I  think." 

[591 


Honore  de  Balzac 


And  with  the  end  of  his  brush  he  pointed 
out  to  the  two  painters  a  layer  of  light  paint. 

Porbus  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  man's 
shoulder  and  said,  turning  to  Poussin: 

"Do  you  know  that  we  have  before  us  a 
very  great  painter  ?  " 

"He  is  even  more  poet  than  painter,"  re- 
plied Poussin,  gravely. 

"  Here,"  rejoined  Porbus,  pointing  to  the 
canvas,  "here  ends  our  art  on  earth." 

"And  from  here  it  soars  upwards  and  dis- 
appears in  the  skies,"  said  Poussin. 

"How  much  pleasure  is  concentrated  on 
this  piece  of  canvas!"  cried  Porbus. 

The  old  man,  completely  distraught,  did  not 
listen  to  them;  he  was  smiling  at  that  ideal 
woman. 

"But  sooner  or  later  he  will  discover  that 
there  is  nothing  on  his  canvas!"  exclaimed 
Poussin. 

"Nothing  on  my  canvas!  "  cried  Frenhofer, 
gazing  at  the  two  painters  and  at  his  alleged 
picture  in  turn. 

[60] 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

"What  have  you  done?"  whispered  Por- 
bus  to  Poussin. 

The  old  man  grasped  the  young  man's  arm 
violently,  and  said  to  him : 

"You  see  nothing,  you  clown!  you  boor! 
you  idiot!  you  villain!  Then  why  did  you 
come  up  here  ? — My  dear  Porbus,"  he  contin- 
ued, turning  towards  the  painter;  "is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  too  would  mock  at  me?  I 
am  your  friend;  tell  me,  have  I  spoiled  my 
picture  ?  " 

Porbus  hesitated,  not  daring  to  say  any- 
thing; but  the  anxiety  depicted  on  the  old 
man's  pale  face  was  so  heartrending  that  he 
pointed  to  the  canvas,  saying: 

"Look!" 

Frenhofer  gazed  at  his  picture  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  staggered. 

"Nothing!  nothing!  and  after  working  ten 
years!" 

He  sat  down  and  wept. 

"So  I  am  an  idiot,  a  madman!  I  have 
neither  talent  nor  capacity!  I  am  nothing 

[611 


Honore  de  Balzac 


more  than  a  rich  man,  who,  when  I  walk, 
do  nothing  but  walk!  So  I  have  produced 
nothing! " 

He  gazed  at  his  canvas  through  his  tears; 
suddenly  he  rose  with  a  gesture  of  pride  and 
cast  a  flashing  glance  at  the  two  painters. 

"  By  the  blood,  by  the  body,  by  the  head 
of  the  Christ!  you  are  jealous  hounds  who 
wish  to  make  me  believe  that  it  is  spoiled,  in 
order  to  steal  it  from  me!  But  I  can  see  her!  " 
he  cried,  "and  she  is  wonderfully  lovely!  " 

At  that  moment,  Poussin  heard  Gillette 
crying  in  a  corner  where  she  was  cowering, 
entirely  tbrgotten. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  angel?"  asked 
the  painter,  suddenly  become  the  lover  once 
more. 

"  Kill  me!  "  she  said.  "  I  should  be  a  shame- 
less creature  to  love  you  still,  for  I  despise 
you.  1  admire  you  and  I  have  a  horror  of 
you!  I  love  you,  and  I  believe  that  I  hate  you 
already." 

While   Poussin   listened  to  Gillette.   Fren- 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

hofer  covered  his  Catherine  with  a  green  cur- 
tain, with  the  calm  gravity  of  a  jeweller  closing 
his  drawers  when  he  thinks  that  he  is  in  the 
company  of  clever  thieves.  He  bestowed  upon 
the  two  painters  a  profoundly  cunning  glance, 
full  of  contempt  -and  suspicion,  and  silently 
ushered  them  out  of  his  studio,  with  con- 
vulsive haste;  then  standing  in  his  doorway, 
he  said  to  them : 

"Adieu,  my  little  friends." 

That  "adieu"  horrified  the  two  painters. 
The  next  day  Porbus,  in  his  anxiety,  went  again 
to  see  Frenhofer,  and  learned  that  he  had 
died  in  the  night,  after  burning  all  his  pictures., 

1831. 


LOS  I 


A  Seashore  Drama 


To 

MADAME   LA   PRINCESSE  CAROLINE  GALITZIN  DE 
GENTHOD,  NEE  COMTESSE  WALEWSKA: 

The  author's  homage  and  remembrances. 


[66J 


A  Seashore  Drama 

YOUNG  men  almost  always  have  a  pair  of 
compasses  with  which  they  delight  to 
measure  the  future ;  when  their  will  is  in  accord 
with  the  size  of  the  angle  which  they  make, 
the  world  is  theirs.  But  this  phenomenon  of 
moral  life  takes  place  only  at  a  certain  age. 
That  age,  which  in  the  case  of  all  men  comes 
between  the  years  of  twenty-two  and  twenty- 
eight,  is  the  age  of  noble  thoughts,  the  age  of 
first  conceptions,  because  it  is  the  age  of  un- 
bounded desires,  the  age  at  which  one  doubts 
nothing;  he  who  talks  of  doubt  speaks  of  im- 
potence. After  that  age,  which  passes  as 
quickly  as  the  season  for  sowing,  comes  the 
age  of  execution.  There  are  in  a  certain 
sense  two  youths:  one  during  which  one 
thinks,  the  other  during  which  one  acts;  often 
they  are  blended,  in  men  whom  nature  has 
favoured,  and  who,  like  Caesar,  Newton,  and 

f671 


Honore  de  Balzac 


Bonaparte,   are    the    greatest    among    great 
men. 

I  was  reckoning  how  much  time  a  thought 
needs  to  develop  itself;  and,  compasses  in 
hand,  standing  on  a  cliff  a  hundred  fathoms 
above  the  ocean,  whose  waves  played  among 
the  reefs,  I  laid  out  my  future,  furnishing  it 
with  works,  as  an  engineer  draws  fortresses 
and  palaces  upon  vacant  land.  The  sea  was 
lovely;  I  had  just  dressed  after  bathing;  I  was 
waiting  for  Pauline,  my  guardian  angel,  who 
was  bathing  in  a  granite  bowl  full  of  white 
sand,  the  daintiest  bath-tub  that  Nature  ever 
designed  for  any  of  her  sea-fairies.  We  were 
at  the  extreme  point  of  Le  Croisic,  a  tiny 
peninsula  of  Brittany;  we  were  far  from  the 
harbour,  in  a  spot  which  the  authorities  con- 
sidered so  inaccessible  that  the  customs-officers 
almost  never  visited  it.  To  swim  in  the  air 
after  swimming  in  the  sea!  Ah!  who  would 
not  have  swum  into  the  future  ?  Why  did  I 
think?  Why  does  evil  happen?  Who  knows? 
Ideas  come  to  your  heart,  or  your  brain,  with- 


A  Seashore  Drama 


out  consulting  you.  No  courtesan  was  ever 
more  whimsical  or  more  imperious  than  is 
conception  in  an  artist;  it  must  be  caught,  like 
fortune,  by  the  hair,  when  it  comes.  Clinging 
to  my  thought,  as  Astolphe  clung  to  his  hip- 
pogriff,  I  galloped  through  the  world,  arrang- 
ing everything  therein  to  suit  my  pleasure. 

When  I  looked  about  me  in  search  of  some 
omen  favourable  to  the  audacious  schemes 
which  my  wild  imagination  advised  me  to 
undertake,  a  sweet  cry,  the  cry  of  a  woman 
calling  in  the  silence  of  the  desert,  the  cry  of 
a  woman  coming  from  the  bath,  refreshed  and 
joyous,  drowned  the  murmur  of  the  fringe  of 
foam  tossed  constantly  back  and  forth  by  the 
rising  and  falling  of  the  waves  in  the  indenta- 
tions of  the  shore.  When  I  heard  that  note, 
uttered  by  the  soul,  I  fancied  that  I  had  seen 
on  the  cliff  the  foot  of  an  angel,  who,  as  she 
unfolded  her  wings,  had  called  to  me:  "Thou 
shalt  have  success!"  I  descended,  radiant 
with  joy  and  light  as  air;  I  went  bounding 
down,  like  a  stone  down  a  steep  slope.  When 


Honore  de  Balzac 


she  saw  me,  she  said  to  me:  "What  is  the 
matter  ?  "  I  did  not  answer,  but  my  eyes  be- 
came moist.  The  day  before,  Pauline  had 
understood  my  pain,  as  she  understood  at 
that  moment  my  joy,  with  the  magical  sensi- 
tiveness of  a  harp  which  follows  the  variations 
of  the  atmosphere.  The  life  of  man  has  some 
glorious  moments!  We  walked  silently  along 
the  shore.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  the  sea 
without  a  ripple;  others  would  have  seen 
only  two  blue  plains,  one  above  the  other; 
but  we  who  understood  each  other  without 
need  of  speech,  we  who  could  discover 
between  those  two  swaddling-cloths  of  in- 
finity the  illusions  with  which  youth  is  nour- 
ished, we  pressed  each  other's  hand  at  the 
slightest  change  which  took  place  either  in 
the  sheet  of  water  or  in  the  expanse  of  air;  for 
we  took  those  trivial  phenomena  for  material 
interpretations  of  our  twofold  thought. 

Who  has  not  enjoyed  that  unbounded  bliss 
in  pleasure,  when  the  soul  seems  to  be  released 
from  the  bonds  of  the  flesh,  and  to  be  restored 

[70] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


as  it  were  to  the  world  whence  it  came  ? 
Pleasure  is  not  our  only  guide  in  those  regions. 
Are  there  not  times  when  the  sentiments  em- 
brace each  other  as  of  their  own  motion,  and 
fly  thither,  like  two  children  who  take  each 
other's  hands  and  begin  to  run  without  know- 
ing why  or  whither?  We  walked  along 
thus. 

At  the  moment  that  the  roofs  of  the  town 
appeared  on  the  horizon,  forming  a  grayish 
line,  we  met  a  poor  fisherman  who  was  re- 
turning to  Le  Croisic.  His  feet  were  bare,  his 
canvas  trousers  were  ragged  on  the  edges, 
with  many  holes  imperfectly  mended;  he 
wore  a  shirt  of  sail-cloth,  wretched  list  sus- 
penders, and  his  jacket  was  a  mere  rag.  The 
sight  of  that  misery  distressed  us  —  a  discord, 
as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  our  harmony.  We 
looked  at  each  other,  to  lament  that  we  had 
not  at  that  moment  the  power  to  draw  upon 
the  treasury  of  Aboul-Cacem.  We  saw  a 
magnificent  lobster  and  a  crab  hanging  by 
a  cord  which  the  fisherman  carried  in  his  right 

171] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


hand,  while  in  the  other  he  had  his  nets  and 
his  fishing  apparatus.  We  accosted  him,  with 
the  purpose  of  buying  his  fish,  an  idea  which 
occurred  to  both  of  us,  and  which  ex- 
pressed itself  in  a  smile,  to  which  I  replied  by 
slightly  pressing  the  arm  which  I  held  and 
drawing  it  closer  to  my  heart.  It  was  one 
of  those  nothings  which  the  memory  after- 
ward transforms  into  a  poem,  when,  sitting  by 
the  fire,  we  recall  the  time  when  that  nothing 
moved  us,  the  place  where  it  happened,  and 
that  mirage,  the  effects  of  which  have  never 
been  defined,  but  which  often  exerts  an  in- 
fluence upon  the  objects  which  surround  us, 
when  life  is  pleasant  and  our  hearts  are  full. 

The  loveliest  places  are  simply  what  we 
make  them.  Who  is  the  man,  however  little 
of  a  poet  he  may  be,  who  has  not  in  his  mem- 
ory a  bowlder  that  occupies  more  space  than 
the  most  famous  landscape  visited  at  great 
expense  ?  Beside  that  bowlder  what  tempest- 
uous thoughts!  there,  a  whole  life  mapped 
out;  here,  fears  banished;  there,  rays  of  hope 

[72] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


entered  the  heart.  At  that  moment,  the  sun, 
sympathising  with  these  thoughts  of  love  and 
of  the  future,  cast  upon  the  yellowish  sides 
of  that  cliff  an  ardent  beam;  some  mountain 
wild-flowers  attracted  the  attention;  the  tran- 
quillity and  silence  magnified  that  uneven  sur- 
face, in  reality  dark  of  hue,  but  made  brilliant 
by  the  dreamer;  then  it  was  beautiful,  with 
its  meagre  vegetation,  its  warm-hued  camo- 
mile, its  Venus's  hair,  with  the  velvety  leaves. 
A  prolonged  festivity,  superb  decorations, 
placid  exaltation  of  human  strength!  Once 
before,  the  Lake  of  Bienne,  seen  from  lie 
St.-Pierre,  had  spoken  to  me  thus;  perhaps 
the  cliff  of  Le  Croisic  would  be  the  last  of 
those  delights.  But,  in  that  case,  what  would 
become  of  Pauline  ? 

"You  have  had  fine  luck  this  morning,  my 
good  man,"  I  said  to  the  fisherman. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  he  replied,  stopping  to 
turn  towards  us  the  tanned  face  of  those  who 
remain  for  hours  at  a  time  exposed  to  the  re- 
flection of  the  sun  on  the  water. 

[73] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


That  face  indicated  endless  resignation;  the 
patience  of  the  fisherman,  and  his  gentle  man- 
ners. That  man  had  a  voice  without  trace 
of  harshness,  kindly  lips,  no  ambition;  an  in- 
definably frail  and  sickly  appearance.  Any 
other  type  efface  would  have  displeased  us. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  sell  your  fish  ?" 

"  At  the  town." 

"  How  much  will  you  get  for  the  lobster  ?" 

"  Fifteen  sous." 

"  And  for  the  crab?" 

"  Twenty  sous." 

"Why  so  much  difference  between  the 
lobster  and  the  crab  ?  " 

"  The  crab  is  much  more  delicate,  monsieur; 
and  then  it  's  as  cunning  as  a  monkey,  and 
don't  often  allow  itself  to  be  caught." 

"Will  you  let  us  have  both  for  a  hundred 
sous  ?  "  said  Pauline. 

The  man  was  thunderstruck. 

"You  sha*  n't  have  them!"  I  said  laugh- 
ingly; "  I  will  give  ten  francs.  We  must  pay 
for  emotions  all  that  they  are  worth." 

[74] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  "  I  propose  to 
have  them;  I  will  give  ten  francs  two  sous." 

"  Ten  sous." 

"  Twelve  francs." 

"  Fifteen  francs." 

"  Fifteen  francs  fifty,"  she  said. 

"  One  hundred  francs." 

"  One  hundred  and  fifty." 

I  bowed.  At  that  moment  we  were  not 
rich  enough  to  carry  the  bidding  any  farther. 
The  poor  fisherman  did  not  know  whether  he 
ought  to  be  angry  as  at  a  practical  joke,  or  to 
exult;  we  relieved  him  from  his  dilemma  by 
giving  him  the  name  of  our  landlady  and  telling 
him  to  take  the  lobster  and  the  crab  to  her 
house. 

"Do  you  earn  a  living?"  I  asked  him,  in 
order  to  ascertain  to  what  cause  his  destitution 
should  be  attributed. 

"With  much  difficulty  and  many  hard- 
ships," he  replied.  "Fishing  on  the  sea- 
shore, when  you  have  neither  boat  nor  nets, 
and  can  fish  only  with  a  line,  is  a  risky  trade. 

[75] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


You  see  you  have  to  wait  for  the  fish  or  the 
shell-fish  to  come,  while  the  fishermen  with 
boats  can  go  out  to  sea  after  them.  It  is  so 
hard  to  earn  a  living  this  way,  that  I  am  the 
only  man  who  fishes  on  the  shore.  I  pass 
whole  days  without  catching  anything.  The 
only  way  I  get  anything  is  when  a  crab  forgets 
himself  and  goes  to  sleep,  as  this  one  did,  or  a 
lobster  is  fool  enough  to  stay  on  the  rocks. 
Sometimes,  after  a  high  sea,  the  wolf-fish 
come  in,  and  then  I  grab  them." 

"Well,  take  one  day  with  another,  what 
do  you  earn  ?  " 

"  Eleven  or  twelve  sous.  I  could  get  along 
with  that  if  I  were  alone;  but  I  have  my 
father  to  support,  and  the  poor  man  can't  help 
me,  for  he  's  blind." 

At  that  sentence,  uttered  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity, Pauline  and  I  looked  at  each  other 
without  a  word. 

"  You  have  a  wife  or  a  sweetheart  ?  " 

He  cast  at  us  one  of  the  most  pitiful  glances 
that  I  ever  saw,  as  he  replied : 

[76] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


"If  I  had  a  wife,  then  I  should  have  to  let 
my  father  go;  I  couldn't  support  him,  and 
a  wife  and  children  too." 

"Well,  my  poor  fellow,  how  is  it  that  you 
don't  try  to  earn  more  by  carrying  salt  to  the 
harbour,  or  by  working  in  the  salt  marshes  ?  " 

"  Oh  ?  I  could  n't  do  that  for  three  months, 
monsieur.  I  am  not  strong  enough ;  and  if  I 
should  die,  my  father  would  have  to  beg. 
What  I  must  have  is  a  trade  that  requires 
very  little  skill  and  a  great  deal  of  patience." 

"But  how  can  two  people  live  on  twelve 
sous  a  day  ?  " 

"Oh,  monsieur,  we  eat  buckwheat  cakes, 
and  barnacles  that  I  take  off  the  rocks." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"Thirty-seven." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  away  from  here  ?" 

"I  went  to  Guerande  once,  to  draw  my  lot 
in  the  draft,  and  I  went  to  Savenay,  to  show 
myself  to  some  gentlemen  who  measured  me. 
If  I  had  been  an  inch  taller  I  should  have  been 
drafted.  I  should  have  died  on  the  first  long 

[77] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


march,  and  my  poor  father  would  have  been 
asking  alms  to-day." 

I  had  thought  out  many  dramas;  Pauline 
was  accustomed  to  intense  emotions,  living 
with  a  man  in  my  condition  of  health;  but 
neither  of  us  had  ever  listened  to  more 
touching  words  than  those  of  that  fisherman. 
We  walked  some  distance  in  silence,  both  of 
us  measuring  the  silent  depths  of  that  un- 
known life,  admiring  the  nobility  of  that  self- 
sacrifice  which  was  unconscious  of  itself;  the 
strength  of  his  weakness  surprised  us;  that 
unconscious  generosity  made  us  small  in  our 
own  eyes.  I  saw  that  poor  creature,  all  in- 
stinct, chained  to  that  rock  as  a  galley-slave  is 
chained  to  his  ball,  watching  for  twenty  years 
for  shell-fish  to  support  himself,  and  sustained 
in  his  patience  by  a  single  sentiment.  How 
many  hours  passed  on  the  edge  of  that  beach! 
how  many  hopes  crushed  by  a  squall,  by  a 
change  of  weather!  He  hung  over  the  edge 
of  a  granite  shelf,  his  arms  stretched  out  like 
those  of  an  Indian  fakir,  while  his  father, 

[78] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


sitting  on  a  stool,  waited  in  silence  and  dark- 
ness for  him  to  bring  him  the  coarsest  of 
shell-fish  and  of  bread,  if  the  sea  were  willing. 

"  Do  you  ever  drink  wine  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"Three  or  four  times  a  year." 

"Well,  you  shall  drink  some  to-day,  you 
and  your  father,  and  we  will  send  you  a 
white  loaf." 

"You  are  very  kind,  monsieur." 

"  We  will  give  you  your  dinner,  if  you  will 
guide  us  along  the  shore  as  far  as  Batz,  where 
we  are  going,  to  see  the  tower  which  over- 
looks the  basin  and  the  coast  between  Batz 
and  Le  Croisic." 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said.  "Go  straight 
ahead,  follow  the  road  you  are  now  on;  I  will 
overtake  you  after  I  have  got  rid  of  my  fish 
and  my  tackle." 

We  nodded  simultaneously,  and  he  hurried 
off  towards  the  town,  light  at  heart.  That 
meeting  held  us  in  the  same  mental  situation 
in  which  we  were  previously,  but  it  had  low- 
ered our  spirits. 

(79] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"Poor  man!  "said  Pauline,  with  that  ac- 
cent which  takes  away  from  a  woman's  com- 
passion whatever  there  may  be  offensive  in 
pity;  "does  it  not  make  one  feel  ashamed  to 
be  happy  when  one  sees  such  misery?" 

"Nothing  is  more  cruel  than  to  have  im- 
potent desires,"  I  replied.  "Those  two  poor 
creatures,  father  and  son,  will  no  more  know 
how  keen  our  sympathy  is  than  the  world 
knows  how  noble  their  lives  are;  for  they  are 
laying  up  treasures  in  heaven." 

"What  a  wretched  country!"  she  said,  as 
she  pointed  out  to  me,  along  a  field  surrounded 
by  a  loose  stone  wall,  lumps  of  cow-dung 
arranged  symmetrically.  "I  asked  some  one 
what  those  were.  A  peasant  woman,  who 
was  putting  them  in  place,  answered  that  she 
was  making  wood.  Just  fancy,  my  dear,  that 
when  these  blocks  of  dung  are  dried,  these 
poor  people  gather  them,  pile  them  up,  and 
warm  themselves  with  them.  During  the 
winter  they  are  sold,  like  lumps  of  peat.  And 
what  do  you  suppose  the  best  paid  dress- 

[80] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


maker  earns?  Five  sous  a  day,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause;  "  but  she  gets  her  board." 

"See,"  I  said  to  her,  "the  winds  from  the 
ocean  wither  or  uproot  everything;  there  are 
no  trees;  the  wrecks  of  vessels  that  are  be- 
yond use  are  sold  to  the  rich,  for  the  cost  of 
transportation  prevents  them  from  using  the 
firewood  in  which  Brittany  abounds.  This 
province  is  beautiful  only  to  great  souls;  peo- 
ple without  courage  could  not  live  here;  it  is 
no  place  for  anybody  except  poets  or  barna- 
cles. The  storehouse  for  salt  had  to  be  built 
on  the  cliff,  to  induce  anybody  to  live  in  it. 
On  one  side,  the  sea;  on  the  other,  the  sands; 
above,  space." 

We  had  already  passed  the  town  and  were 
within  the  species  of  desert  which  separates 
Le  Croisic  from  the  village  of  Batz.  Imagine, 
my  dear  uncle,  a  plain  two  leagues  in  length, 
covered  by  the  gleaming  sand  that  we  see  on 
the  seashore.  Here  and  there  a  few  rocks 
raised  their  heads,  and  you  would  have  said 
that  they  were  gigantic  beasts  lying  among 

6  [81] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  dunes.  Along  the  shore  there  is  an  oc- 
casional reef,  about  which  the  waves  play, 
giving  them  the  aspect  of  great  white  roses 
floating  on  the  liquid  expanse  and  coming  to 
rest  on  the  shore.  When  I  saw  that  plain 
bounded  by  the  ocean  on  the  right,  and  on 
the  left  by  the  great  lake  that  flows  in  between 
Le  Croisic  and  the  sandy  heights  of  Guerande, 
at  the  foot  of  which  there  are  salt  marshes 
absolutely  without  vegetation,  I  glanced  at 
Pauline  and  asked  her  if  she  had  the  courage 
to  defy  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  the  strength 
to  walk  through  the  sand. 

"  I  have  on  high  boots;  let  us  go  thither," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  tower  of  Batz,  which 
circumscribed  the  view  by  its  enormous  mass, 
placed  there  like  a  pyramid,  but  a  slender,  in- 
dented pyramid,  so  poetically  adorned  that  it 
allowed  the  imagination  to  see  in  it  the  first 
ruins  of  a  great  Asiatic  city.  We  walked  a 
few  yards  and  sat  down  under  a  rock  which 
was  still  in  the  shadow;  but  it  was  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  that  shadow, 

[82] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


which  ceased  at  our  feet,  rapidly  disap- 
peared. 

"How  beautiful  the  silence  is,"  she  said  to 
me;  "and  how  its  intensity  is  increased  by 
the  regular  plashing  of  the  sea  on  the  beach!  " 

"If  you  choose  to  abandon  your  under- 
standing to  the  three  immensities  that  sur- 
round us,  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  sand, 
listening  solely  to  the  repeated  sound  of  the 
flow  and  the  outflow,"  I  replied,  "you  will 
not  be  able  to  endure  its  language;  you  will 
fancy  that  you  discover  therein  a  thought 
which  will  overwhelm  you.  Yesterday,  at 
sunset,  I  had  that  sensation;  it  prostrated  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  let  us  talk,"  she  said,  after  a  long 
pause.  "No  orator  can  be  more  terrible  than 
this  silence.  I  fancy  that  I  have  discovered 
the  causes  of  the  harmony  which  surrounds 
us,"  she  continued.  "This  landscape,  which 
has  only  three  sharp  colours,  the  brilliant  yel- 
low of  the  sand,  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the 
smooth  green  of  the  sea,  is  grand  without 
being  wild,  it  is  immense  without  being  a 

[83] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


desert,  it  is  changeless  without  being  mono- 
tonous; it  has  only  three  elements,  but  it  is 
diversified." 

"Women  alone  can  express  their  impres- 
sions thus,"  I  replied;  "you  would  drive  a 
poet  to  despair,  dear  heart,  whom  I  divined 
so  perfectly." 

"The  excessive  noonday  heat  imparts  a 
gorgeous  colour  to  those  three  expressions  of 
infinity,"  replied  Pauline,  laughing.  "I  can 
imagine  here  the  poesy  and  the  passion  of  the 
Orient." 

"And  I  can  imagine  its  despair/' 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "that  dune  is  a  sublime 
cloister." 

We  heard  the  hurried  step  of  our  guide;  he 
had  dressed  himself  in  his  best  clothes.  We 
said  a  few  formal  words  to  him ;  he  evidently 
saw  that  our  frame  of  mind  had  changed,  and, 
with  the  reserve  that  misfortune  imparts,  he 
kept  silent.  Although  we  pressed  each  other's 
hands  from  time  to  time,  to  advise  each  other 
of  the  unity  of  our  impressions,  we  walked 

[84] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


for  half  an  hour  in  silence,  whether  because 
we  were  overwhelmed  by  the  heat,  which 
rose  in  shimmering  waves  from  the  sand,  or 
because  the  difficulty  of  walking  absorbed  our 
attention.  We  walked  on,  hand  in  hand,  like 
two  children;  we  should  not  have  taken  a 
dozen  steps  if  we  had  been  arm  in  arm.  The 
road  leading  to  Batz  was  not  marked  out;  a 
gust  of  wind  was  enough  to  efface  the  foot- 
prints of  horses  or  the  wheel-ruts;  but  our 
guide's  practised  eye  recognised  the  road  by 
the  droppings  of  cattle  or  of  horses.  Some- 
times it  went  down  towards  the  sea,  some- 
times rose  towards  the  upland,  at  the  caprice 
of  the  slopes,  or  to  skirt  a  rock.  At  noon, 
we  were  only  half-way. 

"We  will  rest  there,"  said  I,  pointing  to  a 
promontory  formed  of  rocks  high  enough  to 
lead  one  to  suppose  that  we  should  find  a 
grotto  there. 

When  I  spoke,  the  fisherman,  who  had  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  my  finger,  shook  his 
head  and  said: 

(86) 


Honore  de  Balzac 


' '  There  ;s  some  one  there !  People  who  go 
from  Batz  to  Le  Croisic,  or  from  Le  Croisic  to 
Batz,  always  make  a  detour  in  order  not  to 
pass  that  rock." 

The  man  said  this  in  a  low  voice,  and  we 
divined  a  mystery. 

"  Is  he  a  thief,  an  assassin  ?" 

Our  guide  replied  only  by  a  long-drawn 
breath  which  increased  our  curiosity. 

"  But  will  anything  happen  to  us  if  we  pass 
by  there  ?  " 

"Oh  no!" 

"Will  you  go  with  us?" 

"No,  monsieur." 

"We  will  go  then,  if  you  assure  us  that  we 
shall  be  in  no  danger." 

"I  don't  say  that,"  replied  the  fisherman 
hastily;  "I  say  simply  that  the  man  who  is 
there  won't  say  anything  to  you,  or  do  any 
harm  to  you.  Oh,  bless  my  soul!  he  won't 
so  much  as  move  from  his  place!" 

"Who  is  he,  pray?" 

"A  man!" 

[86] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


Never  were  two  syllables  uttered  in  such  a 
tragic  tone.  At  that  moment  we  were  twenty 
yards  from  that  reef,  about  which  the  sea  was 
playing;  our  guide  took  the  road  which  skirted 
the  rocks;  we  went  straight  ahead,  but  Pauline 
took  my  arm.  Our  guide  quickened  his  pace 
in  order  to  reach  the  spot  where  the  two  roads 
met  again  at  the  same  time  that  we  did.  He 
evidently  supposed  that,  after  seeing  the  man, 
we  would  quicken  our'  pace.  That  circum- 
stance kindled  our  curiosity,  which  then  be- 
came so  intense  that  our  hearts  throbbed  as  if 
they  had  felt  a  thrill  of  fear.  Despite  the  heat 
of  the  day  and  the  fatigue  caused  by  walking 
through  the  sand,  our  hearts  were  still  aband- 
oned to  the  indescribable  languor  of  a  blissful 
harmony  of  sensations;  they  were  filled  with 
that  pure  pleasure  which  can  only  be  described 
by  comparing  it  to  the  pleasure  which  one 
feels  in  listening  to  some  lovely  music,  like  Mo- 
zart's Andiano  mio  ben.  Do  not  two  pure  sen- 
timents, which  blend,  resemble  two  beautiful 

voices  singing?    In  order  fully  to  appreciate 
ran 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  emotion  which  seized  us,  you  must  share 
the  semivoluptuous  condition  in  which  the 
events  of  that  morning  had  enveloped  us. 
Gaze  for  a  long  while  at  a  turtle-dove  perched 
on  a  slender  twig,  near  a  spring,  and  you  will 
utter  a  cry  of  pain  when  you  see  a  hawk 
pounce  upon  it,  bury  its  steel  claws  in  its 
heart,  and  bear  it  away  with  the  murderous 
rapidity  that  powder  communicates  to  the 
bullet. 

When  we  had  walked  a  yard  or  two  across 
the  open  space  that  lay  in  front  of  the  grotto, 
a  sort  of  platform  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
ocean,  and  sheltered  from  its  rage  by  a  succes- 
sion of  steep  rocks,  we  were  conscious  of  an 
electric  shock  not  unlike  that  caused  by  a  sud- 
den noise  in  the  midst  of  the  night.  We  had 
spied  a  man  seated  on  a  bowlder  of  granite, 
and  he  had  looked  at  us.  His  glance,  like  the 
flash  of  a  cannon,  came  from  two  bloodshot 
eyes,  and  his  stoical  immobility  could  be  com- 
pared only  to  the  unchanging  posture  of  the 
masses  of  granite  which  surrounded  him.  His 

(88) 


A  Seashore  Drama 


eyes  moved  slowly;  his  body,  as  if  it  were 
petrified,  did  not  move  at  all.  After  flashing 
at  us  that  glance  which  gave  us  such  a  rude 
shock,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  vast  expanse  of 
the  ocean,  and  gazed  at  it,  despite  the  dazzling 
light  which  rose  therefrom,  as  the  eagles  are  said 
to  gaze  at  the  sun,  without  lowering  the  lids, 
which  he  did  not  raise  again.  Try  to  recall, 
my  dear  uncle,  one  of  those  old  druidical  oaks, 
whose  gnarled  trunk,  newly  stripped  of  its 
branches,  rises  fantastically  above  a  deserted 
road,  and  you  will  have  an  accurate  image  of 
that  man.  He  had  one  of  those  shattered  her- 
culean frames,  and  the  face  of  Olympian  Jove, 
but  ravaged  by  age,  by  the  hard  toil  of  the 
seafaring  man,  by  grief,  by  coarse  food,  and 
blackened  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  As  I 
glanced  at  his  calloused,  hairy  hands,  I  saw 
chords  which  resembled  veins  of  iron.  How- 
ever, everything  about  him  indicated  a  robust 
constitution.  I  noticed  a  large  quantity  of  moss 
in  a  corner  of  the  grotto,  and  upon  a  rough 
table,  hewn  out  by  chance  in  the  midst  of 

[88] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  granite,  a  broken  loaf  covering  an  earthen 
jug.  Never  had  my  imagination,  when  it 
carried  me  back  to  the  deserts  where  the  first 
hermits  of  Christianity  lived,  conceived  a  face 
more  grandly  religious,  or  more  appallingly 
penitent  than  was  the  face  of  that  man. 

Even  you,  who  have  listened  to  confessions, 
my  dear  uncle,  have  perhaps  never  met  with 
such  sublime  remorse;  but  that  remorse  was 
drowned  in  the  waves  of  prayer,  the  incessant 
prayer  of  silent  despair.  That  fisherman,  that 
sailor,  that  rude  Breton,  was  sublime  by  virtue 
of  some  unknown  sentiment.  But  had  those 
eyes  wept  ?  Had  that  statuelike  hand  struck 
its  fellow  man  ?  Was  that  stern  forehead, 
instinct  with  pitiless  uprightness,  on  which, 
however,  strength  had  left  those  marks  of 
gentleness  which  are  the  accompaniment  of 
all  true  strength — was  that  forehead,  furrowed 
by  wrinkles,  in  harmony  with  a  noble  heart  ? 
Why  was  that  man  among  the  granite  ?  Why 
the  granite  in  that  man?  Where  was  the 
man  ?  Where  was  the  granite  ?  A  whole 

[90] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


world  of  thoughts  rushed  through  our  minds. 
As  our  guide  had  anticipated,  we  had  passed 
in  silence,  rapidly;  and  when  he  met  us,  we 
were  tremulous  with  terror,  or  overwhelmed 
with  amazement.  But  he  did  not  use  the 
fulfillment  of  his  prediction  as  a  weapon 
against  us. 

"Did  you  see  him  ? "  he  asked. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  said  I. 

"They  call  him  The  Man  of  the  Vow." 

You  can  imagine  how  quickly  our  two 
faces  turned  towards  our  fisherman  at  those 
words!  He  was  a  simple-minded  man;  he 
understood  our  silent  question;  and  this  is 
what  he  said,  in  his  own  language,  the  popu- 
lar tone  of  which  I  shall  try  to  retain: 

"Madame,  the  people  of  Le  Croisic,  like 
the  people  of  Batz,  believe  that  that  man  is 
guilty  of  something,  and  that  he  is  doing 
a  penance  ordered  by  a  famous  priest  to 
whom  he  went  to  confess,  a  long  way  be- 
yond Nantes.  Other  people  think  that  Cam- 
bremer — that 's  his  name — has  an  evil  spell 

[91] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


that  he  communicates  to  everybody  who 
passes  through  the  air  he  breathes.  So  a 
good  many  people,  before  they  pass  that 
rock,  look  to  see  what  way  the  wind  is.  If 
it 's  from  galerne,"  he  said,  pointing  towards 
the  west,  "they  would  n't  go  on,  even  if  it 
was  a  matter  of  searching  for  a  piece  of  the  true 
Cross;  they  turn  back,  because  they  're  fright- 
ened. Other  people,  the  rich  people  of  Le 
Croisic,  say  that  he  's  made  a  vow,  and  that 's 
why  he  's  called  The  Man  of  the  Vow.  He  is 
always  there,  night  and  day;  never  comes 
out. 

"These  reports  about  him  have  some  ap- 
pearance of  sense.  You  see,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  point  out  a  thing  which  we  had  not 
noticed,  "he  has  stuck  up  there,  on  the  left. 
a  wooden  cross,  to  show  that  he  has  put  him- 
self under  the  protection  of  God,  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  the  saints.  Even  if  he  had  n't  con- 
secrated himself  like  that,  the  fear  everybody 
has  of  him  would  make  him  as  safe  there  as 
if  he  were  guarded  by  soldiers.  He  has  n't 

[92} 


A  Seashore  Drama 


said  a  word  since  he  shut  himself  up  there  in 
the  open  air;  he  lives  on  bread  and  water 
that  his  brother's  daughter  brings  him  every 
morning — a  little  maid  of  twelve  years,  that 
he  's  left  his  property  to;  and  she  's  a  pretty 
thing,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  a  nice  little  girl 
and  very  clever.  She  has  blue  eyes  as  long 
as  that,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  thumb,  "and 
a  cherub's  head  of  hair.  When  any  one  says 
to  her:  'I  say,  Perotte'  (that  means  Pierrette 
among  us,"  he  said,  interrupting  himself:  "she 
is  consecrated  to  St.  Pierre;  Cambremer's 
name  is  Pierre,  and  he  was  her  godfather),  '  I 
say,  Perotte,  what  does  your  uncle  say  to 
you?'  'He  don't  say  anything,'  she  '11  an- 
swer, '  not  anything  at  all,  nothing ! '  '  Well, 
then,  what  does  he  do  to  you?'  'He  kisses 
me  on  the  forehead  Sundays! '  '  Are  n't  you 
afraid  of  him  ? '  '  Why  no,  he  's  my  god- 
father.' He  won't  let  any  one  else  bring  him 
anything  to  eat.  Perotte  says  that  he  smiles 
when  she  comes;  but  that's  like  a  sunbeam 
in  a  fog,  for  they  say  he  's  as  gloomy  as  a  fog." 

[93] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"But,"  I  said,  "you  arouse  our  curiosity 
without  gratifying  it.  Do  you  know  what 
brought  him  here  ?  Was  it  grief,  was  it  re- 
pentance, was  it  insanity,  was  it  a  crime,  was 
it ?  " 

"Oh!  only  my  father  and  I  know  the  truth 
of  the  thing,  monsieur.  My  dead  mother 
worked  for  a  judge  to  whom  Cambremer 
told  the  whole  story,  by  the  priest's  order; 
for  he  would  n't  give  him  absolution  on  any 
other  condition,  according  to  what  the  people 
at  the  harbour  said.  My  poor  mother  over- 
heard what  Cambremer  said,  without  mean- 
ing to,  because  the  judge's  kitchen  was  right 
next  to  his  study,  and  she  listened.  She  's 
dead,  and  the  judge  who  heard  him  is  dead. 
My  mother  made  father  and  me  promise  never 
to  tell  anything  to  the  people  about  here;  but 
I  can  tell  you  that  the  night  my  mother 
told  it  to  us,  the  hair  on  my  head  turned 
gray." 

"Well,  tell  us,  my  fine  fellow;  we  will  not 
mention  it  to  anybody." 

[94] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


The  fisherman  looked  at  us,  and  continued 
thus: 

"Pierre  Cambremer,  whom  you  saw  yon- 
der, is  the  oldest  of  the  Cambremers,  who 
have  always  been  sailors,  from  father  to  son; 
that 's  what  their  name  says — the  sea  has  al- 
ways bent  under  them.  The  man  you  saw 
was  a  boat  fisherman.  So  he  had  boats  and 
went  sardine-fishing;  he  went  deep-sea  fish- 
ing, too,  for  the  dealers.  He  'd  have  fitted  out 
a  vessel  and  gone  after  cod,  if  he  had  n't  been 
so  fond  of  his  wife;  a  fine  woman  she  was,  a 
Brouin  from  Guerande;  a  magnificent  girl, 
and  she  had  a  big  heart.  She  was  so  fond  of 
Cambremer  that  she  'd  never  let  her  man 
leave  her  any  longer  than  he  had  to,  to  go 
after  sardines.  They  used  to  live  over  there 
—look!"  said  the  fisherman,  ascending  a  hil- 
lock to  point  to  an  islet  in  the  little  inland  sea 
between  the  dunes,  across  which  we  were 
walking,  and  the  salt  marshes  of  Guerande. 
"Do  you  see  that  house  ?  That  was  his. 

"Jacquette  Brouin  and  Cambremer  never 

[95] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


had  but  one  child,  a  boy;  and  they  loved 
him  like — like  what  shall  I  say  ? — indeed,  like 
people  love  their  only  child;  they  were  mad 
over  him.  If  their  little  Jacques  had  put 
dirt  in  the  saucepan,  saving  your  presence, 
they  'd  have  thought  it  was  sugar.  How 
many  times  we  've  seen  'em  at  the  fair,  buy- 
ing the  prettiest  fallals  for  him!  It  was  all 
nonsense  —  everybody  told  'em  so.  Little 
Cambremer,  seeing  that  he  was  allowed  to  do 
whatever  he  wanted  to,  became  as  big  a 
rogue  as  a  red  ass.  When  any  one  went  to 
the  elder  Cambremer  and  told  him :  '  Your  boy 
nearly  killed  little  So-and-so,'  he  'd  laugh  and 
say:  'Bah!  he'll  make  a  fine  sailor!  he  '11 
command  the  king's  fleet.'  And  when  some- 
body else  said:  'Pierre  Cambremer,  do  you 
know  that  your  boy  put  out  the  little  Pou- 
gaud  girl's  eye?'  Pierre  said:  'He  'II  be 
fond  of  the  girls!'  He  thought  everything 
was  all  right.  So  my  little  scamp,  when  he 
was  ten  years  old,  used  to  be  at  everybody 
ind  amuse  himself  cutting  off  hens'  heads, 

196) 


A  Seashore  Drama 


cutting  pigs  open;  in  short,  he  rolled  in  blood 
like  a  polecat.  '  He  '11  make  a  famous  sol- 
dier!' Cambremer  would  say;  'he  's  got  a 
taste  for  blood.'  I  remembered  all  that,  you 
see,"  said  the  fisherman. 

"  And  so  did  Cambremer  too,"  he  continued 
after  a  pause.  "When  he  got  to  be  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years  old,  Jacques  Cambremer  was  — 
what  shall  I  say? — a  shark.  He  used  to  go 
to  Guerande  to  enjoy  himself,  or  to  Savenay 
to  make  love  to  the  girls.  Then  he  began  to 
steal  from  his  mother,  who  did  n't  dare  to  say 
anything  to  her  husband.  Cambremer  was  so 
honest  that  he  'd  travel  twenty  leagues  to  pay 
back  two  sous,  if  he  had  been  overpaid  in 
settling  an  account.  At  last  the  day  came 
when  his  mother  was  stripped  clean.  While 
his  father  was  away  fishing,  the  boy  carried 
off  the  sideboard,  the  dishes,  the  sheets,  the 
linen,  and  left  just  the  four  walls;  he'd  sold 
everything  to  get  money  to  go  to  Nantes  and 
raise  the  devil.  The  poor  woman  cried  for 
whole  days  and  nights.  She  could  n't  help 


Honore  de  Balzac 


telling  the  father  about  that,  when  he  came 
home;  and  she  was  afraid  of  the  father  —  not 
for  herself,  oh  no!  When  Pierre  Cambremer 
came  home  and  found  his  house  furnished 
with  things  people  had  lent  his  wife,  he  said: 

"  '  What  does  all  this  mean  ? ' 

"The  poor  woman  was  nearer  dead  than 
alive. 

"  'We've  been  robbed,'  said  she. 

"  '  Where  's  Jacques  ? ' 

"  'Jacques  is  on  a  spree.' 

"No  one  knew  where  the  villain  had  gone. 

"'He  goes  on  too  many  sprees!'  said 
Pierre. 

"Six  months  later,  the  poor  man  learned 
that  his  son  was  in  danger  of  falling  into  the 
hands  of  justice  at  Nantes.  He  went  there  on 
foot;  made  the  journey  faster  than  he  could 
have  gone  by  sea,  got  hold  of  his  son,  and 
brought  him  back  here.  He  did  n't  ask  him: 
'What  have  you  been  doing?'  He  just  said 
to  him: 

"  '  If  you  don't  behave  yourself  here  with 

[98] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


your  mother  and  me  for  two  years,  going 
fishing  and  acting  like  an  honest  man,  you  '11 
have  an  account  to  settle  with  me! ' 

"The  idiot,  counting  on  his  father's  and 
mother's  stupidity,  made  a  face  at  him.  At 
that  Pierre  fetched  him  a  crack  that  laid  Master 
Jacques  up  in  bed  for  six  months.  The  poor 
mother  almost  died  of  grief.  One  night,  when 
she  was  sleeping  peacefully  by  her  husband's 
side,  she  heard  a  noise,  got  out  of  bed,  and  got 
a  knife-cut  on  her  arm.  She  shrieked  and 
some  one  brought  a  light.  Pierre  Cambremer 
found  his  wife  wounded;  he  thought  that  a 
robber  did  it — as  if  there  was  any  such 
thing  in  our  province,  where  you  can  carry 
ten  thousand  francs  in  gold  from  Le  Croisic  to 
St.-Nazaire,  without  fear,  and  without  once 
being  asked  what  you  've  got  under  your  arm ! 
Pierre  looked  for  Jacques,  but  could  n't  find 
him. 

"  In  the  morning,  the  little  monster  had  the 
face  to  come  home  and  say  that  he  'd  been  to 
Batz.  I  must  tell  you  that  his  mother  did  n't 

[99| 


Honore  de  Balzac 


know  where  to  hide  her  money.  Cambremer 
always  left  his  with  Monsieur  Dupotet  at  Le 
Croisic.  Their  son's  wild  ways  had  eaten  up 
crowns  by  the  hundred,  francs  by  the  hundred, 
and  louis  d'or;  they  were  almost  ruined,  and 
that  was  pretty  hard  for  folks  who  used  to  have 
about  twelve  thousand  francs,  including  their 
island.  No  one  knew  what  Cambremer  paid 
out  at  Nantes  to  clear  his  son.  Bad  luck  raised 
the  deuce  with  the  family.  Cambremer's 
brother  was  in  a  bad  way  and  needed  help. 
To  encourage  him,  Pierre  told  him  that  Jacques 
and  Perotte  (the  younger  Cambremer's  daugh- 
ter) should  marry.  Then  he  employed  him 
in  the  fishing,  so  that  he  could  earn  his  living; 
for  Joseph  Cambremer  was  reduced  to  living 
by  his  work.  His  wife  had  died  of  a  fever, 
and  he  had  had  to  pay  for  a  wet-nurse  for 
Perotte.  Pierre  Cambremer's  wife  owed  a 
hundred  francs  to  different  people  on  the 
little  girl's  account,  for  linen  and  clothes,  and 
for  two  or  three  months'  wages  for  that  big 
Frelu  girl,  who  had  a  child  by  Simon  Gaudry, 

[100] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


and  who  nursed  Perotte.  Mere  Cambremer 
had  sewed  a  Spanish  coin  into  the  cover  of  her 
mattress,  and  marked  it:  'For  Perotte.'  She 
had  had  a  good  education ;  she  could  write  like 
a  clerk,  and  she  'd  taught  her  son  to  read;  that 
was  the  ruin  of  him.  No  one  knew  how  it 
happened,  but  that  scamp  of  a  Jacques  scented 
the  gold,  stole  it,  and  went  off  to  Le  Croisic  on 
a  spree. 

"As  luck  would  have  it,  Goodman  Cam- 
bremer came  in  with  his  boat.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  beach,  he  saw  a  piece  of  paper 
floating;  he  picked  it  up  and  took  it  in  to  his 
wife,  who  fell  flat  when  she  recognised  her 
own  written  words.  Cambremer  did  n't  say 
anything,  but  he  went  to  Le  Croisic,  and  found 
out  that  his  son  was  playing  billiards;  then 
he  sent  for  the  good  woman  who  keeps  the 
cafe,  and  said: 

"  'I  told  Jacques  not  to  spend  a  gold-piece 
that  he'll  pay  you  with;  I'll  wait  outside; 
you  bring  it  to  me,  and  I  '11  give  you  silver 

for  it.' 

[ion 


Honor£  de  Balzac 


"  The  good  woman  brought  him  the  money. 
Cambremer  took  it,  said:  'All  right!'  and 
went  home.  The  whole  town  heard  about 
that.  But  here 's  something  that  I  know,  and 
that  other  people  only  suspect  in  a  generaJ 
way.  He  told  his  wife  to  clean  up  their  room, 
which  was  on  the  ground  floor;  he  made  a 
fire  on  the  hearth,  lighted  two  candles,  placed 
two  chairs  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  and  a 
stool  on  the  other.  Then  he  told  his  wife  to 
put  out  his  wedding  clothes  and  to  get  into 
her  own.  When  he  was  dressed,  he  went  to 
his  brother  and  told  him  to  watch  in  front  of 
the  house  and  tell  him  if  he  heard  any  noise  on 
either  of  the  beaches,  this  one  or  the  one  in 
front  of  the  Guerande  salt  marshes.  When  he 
thought  that  his  wife  was  dressed,  he  went 
home  again,  loaded  a  gun,  and  put  it  out  of 
sight  in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace.  Jacques 
came  at  last;  it  was  late;  he  had  been  drink- 
ing and  playing  billiards  till  ten  o'clock;  he 
had  come  home  by  the  point  of  Carnouf.  His 
uncle  heard  him  hailing,  crossed  to  the  beach 

[102] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


in  front  of  the  marsh  to  fetch  him,  and  rowed 
him  to  the  island  without  a  word.  When 
he  went  into  the  house,  his  father  said  to 
him: 

"'Sit  down  there/  pointing  to  the  stool. 
'  You  are  before  your  father  and  mother,  whom 
you  have  outraged,  and  who  have  got  to  try 
you.' 

"Jacques  began  to  bellow,  because  Cambre- 
mer's  face  was  working  in  a  strange  way. 
The  mother  sat  as  stiff  as  an  oar. 

"  'If  you  call  out,  if  you  move,  if  you  don't 
sit  on  your  stool  as  straight  as  a  mast,  I  '11 
shoot  you  like  a  dog,'  said  Pierre,  pointing 
his  gun  at  him. 

"The  son  was  dumb  as  a  fish;  the  mother 
did  n't  say  anything. 

"  '  Here,'  said  Pierre  to  his  son,  '  is  a  paper 
that  was  wrapped  round  a  Spanish  gold-piece; 
the  gold-piece  was  in  your  mother's  bed ;  no- 
body else  knew  where  she  had  put  it;  I  found 
the  paper  on  the  water  as  I  was  coming 
ashore;  you  gave  this  Spanish  gold-piece  to 

[108] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


Mother  Fleurant  to-night,  and  your  mother 
can't  find  hers  in  her  bed.  Explain  yourself ! ' 

"Jacques  said  that  he  did  n't  take  the  money 
from  his  mother,  and  that  he  had  had  the  coin 
ever  since  he  went  to  Nantes. 

"  '  So  much  the  better,'  said  Pierre.  '  How 
can  you  prove  it  ?  * 

"'I  had  it  before.' 

"  '  You  did  n't  take  your  mother's  ?' 

"'No.' 

"  'Will  you  swear  it  by  your  everlasting 
life?' 

"He  was  going  to  swear;  his  mother 
looked  up  at  him  and  said: 

"  'Jacques,  my  child,  be  careful;  don't 
swear,  if  it  isn't  true.  You  may  mend  your 
ways  and  repent;  there  's  time  enough  still.' 

"  And  she  began  to  cry. 

"  '  You  're  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,' 
he  said,  '  and  you  Ve  always  wanted  to  ruin 
me.1 

"Cambremer  turned  pale,  and  said: 

"  'What  you  just  said  to  your  mother  will 

[104] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


lengthen  your  account.  Come  to  the  point! 
Will  you  swear?' 

"'Yes.' 

"  'See,'  said  Pierre,  'did  your  piece  have 
this  cross  which  the  sardine-dealer  who  paid 
it  to  me  had  made  on  ours  ?' 

"Jacques  sobered  off,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  'Enough  talk,'  said  Pierre.  'I  don't  say 
anything  about  what  you  've  done  before  this. 
I  don't  propose  that  a  Cambremer  shall  be 
put  to  death  on  the  public  square  at  Le  Croisic. 
Say  your  prayers,  and  make  haste!  A  priest 
is  coming  to  confess  you.' 

"  The  mother  went  out,  so  that  she  need  n't 
hear  her  son's  sentence.  When  she  had  left 
the  room,  Cambremer  the  uncle  arrived  with 
the  rector  of  Piriac;  but  Jacques  would  n't 
say  anything  to  him.  He  was  sly;  he  knew 
his  father  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he 
would  n't  kill  him  without  confession. 

"  'Thank  you,  monsieur;  excuse  us,'  said 
Cambremer  to  the  priest,  when  he  saw  that 
Jacques  was  obstinate.  '  I  meant  to  give  my 

[106] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


son  a  lesson,  and  I  ask  you  not  to  say  anything 
about  it. — If  you  don't  mend  your  ways,'  he 
said  to  Jacques,  'the  next  time  will  be  the  last, 
and  I  '11  put  an  end  to  it  without  confession.' 

"He  sent  him  off  to  bed.  The  boy  be- 
lieved what  he  had  heard  and  imagined  that 
he  could  arrange  matters  with  his  father.  He 
went  to  sleep.  The  father  sat  up.  When  he 
saw  that  his  son  was  sound  asleep,  he  stuffed 
his  mouth  with  hemp  and  tied  a  strip  of  can- 
vas over  it  very  tight;  then  he  bound  his 
hands  and  feet.  Jacques  stormed  and  wept 
blood,  so  Cambremer  told  the  judge.  What 
could  you  expect!  The  mother  threw  herself 
at  the  father's  feet. 

"  'He  has  been  tried,'  he  said;  'you  must 
help  me  put  him  in  the  boat.' 

"She  refused.  Cambremer  took  him  to  the 
boat  all  alone,  laid  him  in  the  bottom,  tied  a 
stone  round  his  neck,  and  rowed  abreast  of 
the  rock  where  he  is  now.  Then  the  poor 
mother,  who  had  got  her  brother-in-law  to 
bring  her  over  here,  cried:  'Mercy!'  All  in 

[106] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


vain;  it  had  the  effect  of  a  stone  thrown  at  a 
wolf.  The  moon  was  shining;  she  saw  the 
father  throw  their  son  into  the  water,  the  son 
to  whom  her  heart  still  clung;  and  as  there 
was  n't  any  wind,  she  heard  a  splash,  then 
nothing  more,  not  a  sound  or  a  bubble;  the 
sea  's  a  famous  keeper,  I  tell  you!  When 
he  came  ashore  here  to  quiet  his  wife,  who 
was  groaning,  Cambremer  found  her  about  the 
same  as  dead.  The  two  brothers  could  n't 
carry  her,  so  they  had  to  put  her  in  the  boat 
that  had  just  held  the  son,  and  they  took  her 
home,  going  round  through  Le  Croisic  pas- 
sage. Ah!  La  Belle  Brouin,  as  they  called 
her,  did  n't  last  a  week.  She  died  asking  her 
husband  to  burn  the  accursed  boat.  He  did 
it,  too.  As  for  him,  he  was  like  a  crazy  man; 
he  did  n't  know  what  he  wanted,  and  he 
staggered  when  he  walked,  like  a  man  who 
can't  carry  his  wine.  Then  he  went  off  for 
ten  days,  and  when  he  came  back  he  planted 
himself  where  you  saw  him,  and  since  he  's 
been  there  he  has  n't  said  a  word." 

HOT] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


The  fisherman  took  only  a  moment  or  two 
in  telling  us  this  story,  and  he  told  it  even  more 
simply  than  I  have  written  it.  The  common 
people  make  few  comments  when  they  tell  a 
story;  they  select  the  point  that  has  made  an 
impression  on  them,  and  interpret  it  as  they 
feel  it.  That  narrative  was  as  sharp  and  in- 
cisive as  a  blow  with  an  axe. 

"I  shall  not  go  to  Batz,"  said  Pauline,  as 
we  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  lake. 

We  returned  to  Le  Croisic  by  way  of  the 
salt  marshes,  guided  through  their  labyrinth 
by  a  fisherman  who  had  become  as  silent 
as  we.  The  current  of  our  thoughts  had 
changed.  We  were  both  absorbed  by  de- 
pressing reflections,  saddened  by  that  drama 
which  explained  the  swift  presentiment  that 
we  had  felt  at  the  sight  of  Cambremer.  We 
both  had  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  world  to 
divine  all  that  our  guide  had  not  told  us  of 
that  triple  life.  The  misfortunes  of  those  three 
people  were  reproduced  before  us  as  if  we 
had  seen  them  in  the  successive  scenes  of  a 

[106] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


drama,  to  which  that  father,  by  thus  expiating 
his  necessary  crime,  had  added  the  denoue- 
ment. We  dared  not  look  back  at  that  fatal 
man  who  terrified  a  whole  province. 

A  few  clouds  darkened  the  sky;  vapours 
were  rising  along  the  horizon.  We  were 
walking  through  the  most  distressingly  deso- 
late tract  of  land  that  I  have  ever  seen;  the 
very  soil  beneath  our  feet  seemed  sickly  and 
suffering  —  salt  marshes,  which  may  justly  be 
termed  the  scrofula  of  the  earth.  There  the 
ground  is  divided  into  parcels  of  unequal 
size,  all  enclosed  by  enormous  heaps  of  gray 
earth,  and  filled  with  brackish  water,  to  the 
surface  of  which  the  salt  rises.  These  ravines, 
made  by  the  hand  of  man,  are  subdivided 
by  causeways  along  which  workmen  walk, 
armed  with  long  rakes,  with  which  they  skim 
off  the  brine,  and  carry  the  salt  to  round  plat- 
forms built  here  and  there,  when  it  is  in  con- 
dition to  pile.  For  two  hours  we  skirted  that 
dismal  checker-board,  where  the  salt  is  so 
abundant  that  it  chokes  the  vegetation,  and 

[109] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


where  we  saw  no  other  living  beings  than  an 
occasional  paludier — the  name  given  to  the 
men  who  gather  the  salt.  These  men,  or 
rather  this  tribe  of  Bretons,  wear  a  special 
costume:  a  white  jacket  not  unlike  that  worn 
by  brewers.  They  intermarry,  and  there  has 
never  been  an  instance  of  a  girl  of  that  tribe 
marrying  anybody  except  a  paludier.  The 
ghastly  aspect  of  those  swamps,  where  the 
surface  of  the  mire  is  neatly  raked,  and  of  that 
grayish  soil,  which  the  Breton  flora  holds  in 
horror,  harmonised  with  the  mourning  of  our 
hearts.  When  we  reached  the  place  where 
we  were  to  cross  the  arm  of  the  sea  which  is 
formed  by  the  eruption  of  the  water  into  that 
basin,  and  which  serves  doubtless  to  supply 
the  salt  marshes  with  their  staple,  we  rejoiced 
to  see  the  meagre  vegetation  scattered  along 
the  sandy  shore.  As  we  crossed,  we  saw,  in 
the  centre  of  the  lake,  the  islet  where  the 
Cambremers  lived;  we  looked  the  other  way. 
When  we  reached  our  hotel,  we  noticed  a 

billiard-table  in  a  room  on  the  ground  floor; 
[no] 


A  Seashore  Drama 


and,  when  we  learned  that  it  was  the  only 
public  billiard-table  in  Le  Croisic,  we  pre- 
pared for  our  departure  that  night.  The  next 
day  we  were  at  Guerande.  Pauline  was  still 
depressed,  and  I  could  already  feel  the  coming 
of  the  flame  that  is  consuming  my  brain.  I 
was  so  cruelly  tormented  by  my  visions  of 
those  three  lives  that  she  said  to  me : 

"Write  the  story,  Louis;  in  that  way  you 
will  change  the  nature  of  this  fever." 

So  I  have  written  it  down  for  you,  my  dear 
uncle;  but  it  has  already  destroyed  the  tran- 
quillity that  I  owed  to  the  sea-baths  and  to 
our  visit  here. 

1835. 


rail 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 


. 


To  MONSIEUR  GUYONNET-MERVILLE  : 

Would  it  not  be  well  for  me,  my  dear  former  master,  to 
explain  to  those  people  who  are  curious  to  know  every- 
thing, where  1  was  able  to  learn  enough  of  legal  procedure 
to  manage  the  business  of  my  little  circle,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  consecrate  here  the  memory  of  the  amiable  and 
intellectual  man  who  said  to  Scribe,  another  amateur  law- 
yer, on  meeting  him  at  a  ball:  "  Go  to  the  office — I  prom- 
ise you  that  there  is  work  enough  there  "  ?  But  do  you 
need  this  public  testimony  in  order  to  be  assured  of  the 
author's  affection  ?  DE  BALZAC. 


114 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

ON  the  twenty-second  of  January,  1793, 
about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  an 
old  lady  was  descending  the  steep  hill  which 
ends  in  front  of  the  church  of  St.-Laurent,  on 
Faubourg  St.-Martin,  Paris.  It  had  snowed 
so  hard  all  day  that  footfalls  could  scarcely  be 
heard.  The  streets  were  deserted;  the  not 
unnatural  dread  inspired  by  the  silence  was 
intensified  by  the  terror  under  which  France 
was  then  groaning;  so  that  the  old  lady  had 
not  as  yet  met  anybody;  her  sight,  which  had 
long  been  poor,  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
see,  in  the  distance,  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
street -lanterns,  the  few  people  who  were 
scattered  about  like  ghosts  in  the  broad  high- 
way of  the  faubourg.  She  went  her  way 
courageously,  alone,  through  that  solitude,  as 
if  her  age  were  a  talisman  certain  to  preserve 
her  from  all  evil. 


Honor6  de  Balzac 


When  she  had  passed  Rue  des  Morts,  she 
fancied  that  she  could  distinguish  the  firm 
and  heavy  step  of  a  man  walking  behind  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not  the  first  time 
that  she  had  heard  that  sound ;  she  was  terri- 
fied at  the  thought  that  she  had  been  fol- 
lowed, and  she  tried  to  walk  even  faster,  in 
order  to  reach  a  brightly  lighted  shop,  hop- 
ing to  be  able  to  set  at  rest  in  the  light  the 
suspicions  which  had  seized  her.  As  soon  as 
she  had  stepped  beyond  the  horizontal  rays  of 
light  that  shone  from  the  shop,  she  suddenly 
turned  her  head  and  caught  sight  of  a  hu- 
man figure  in  the  fog;  that  indistinct  glimpse 
was  enough  for  her;  she  staggered  for  an  in- 
stant under  the  weight  of  the  fear  which  op- 
pressed her,  for  she  no  longer  doubted  that 
she  had  been  attended  by  the  stranger  from 
the  first  step  that  she  had  taken  outside  of  her 
home;  and  the  frantic  longing  to  escape  a 
spy  gave  her  additional  strength.  Incapable 
of  reasoning,  she  quickened  her  pace,  as  if 
she  could  possibly  elude  a  man  who  was 

[1161 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

surely  more  active  than  she.  After  running 
for  some  minutes,  she  reached  a  pastry-cook's 
shop,  rushed  in,  and  fell  rather  than  sat  down 
upon  a  chair  in  front  of  the  counter. 

The  instant  that  she  rattled  the  latch  of  the 
door,  a  young  woman,  who  was  engaged 
in  embroidering,  raised  her  eyes,  recognised 
through  the  glass  door  the  old-fashioned 
mantle  of  violet  silk  in  which  the  old  lady 
was  wrapped,  and  hastily  opened  a  drawer, 
as  if  to  take  out  something  which  she  in- 
tended to  give  her.  Not  only  did  the  young 
woman's  movement  and  expression  denote 
a  wish  to  be  rid  of  the  stranger  at  once,  as 
if  she  were  one  of  those  people  whom  one 
is  not  glad  to  see,  but  she  also  uttered  an 
impatient  exclamation  when  she  found  the 
drawer  empty;  then,  without  glancing  at  the 
lady,  she  rushed  from  behind  the  counter, 
towards  the  back-shop,  and  called  her  hus- 
band, who  appeared  instantly. 

"Where  have  you  put ?"  she 

asked  him  with  a  mysterious  expression, 


Honore  de  Balzac 


indicating  the  old  lady  by  a  glance,  and  not 
finishing  her  sentence. 

Although  the  pastry-cook  could  see  only  the 
enormous  black  silk  bonnet,  surrounded  by 
violet  ribbons,  which  the  stranger  wore  upon 
her  head,  he  disappeared,  after  a  glance  at  his 
wife,  which  seemed  to  say:  "Do  you  suppose 
that  I  am  going  to  leave  that  on  your  counter?" 

Amazed  by  the  old  lady's  silence  and  immo- 
bility, the  trades-woman  walked  towards  her, 
and  as  she  examined  her  she  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling  of  compassion,  and  perhaps  of  curi- 
osity as  well.  Although  the  stranger's  com- 
plexion was  naturally  sallow,  like  that  of  a 
person  vowed  to  secret  austerities,  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  some  recent  emotion  had  made  her 
even  paler  than  usual.  Her  bonnet  was  so 
arranged  as  to  conceal  her  hair,  which  was 
presumably  whitened  by  age,  for  the  neat- 
ness of  the  collar  of  her  dress  indicated  that 
she  did  not  wear  powder.  That  lack  of 
adornment  imparted  to  her  face  a  sort  of  re- 
ligious asceticism.  Her  features  were  serious 

[118J 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

and  dignified.  In  the  old  days  the  manners 
and  customs  of  people  of  quality  were  so  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  people  belonging  to  the 
lower  classes,  that  one  could  easily  dis- 
tinguish a  person  of  noble  birth.  So  that 
the  young  woman  was  convinced  that  the 
stranger  was  a  ci-devant,  and  that  she  had 
belonged  to  the  court. 

"Madame,"  she  said  involuntarily  and 
with  respect,  forgetting  that  that  title  was 
proscribed. 

The  old  lady  did  not  reply.  She  kept  her 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  shop-window,  as  if 
some  terrifying  object  were  there  apparent. 

"What  's  the  matter  with  you,  citizen- 
ess?"  asked  the  proprietor,  who  reappeared 
at  that  moment. 

The  citizen  pastry-cook  aroused  the  lady 
from  her  revery  by  handing  her  a  little  paste- 
board box  covered  with  blue  paper. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  my  friends,"  she  re- 
plied in  a  mild  voice. 

She  looked  up  at  the  pastry-cook  as  if  to 

fl!9J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


bestow  a  grateful  glance  upon  him ;  but  when 
she  saw  a  red  cap  on  his  head  she  uttered  an 
exclamation : 

"  Ah !  you  have  betrayed  me!  " 

The  young  woman  and  her  husband  replied 
by  a  gesture  of  horror  which  made  the 
stranger  blush,  perhaps  for  having  suspected 
them,  perhaps  with  pleasure. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said  with  childlike 
gentleness. 

Then,  taking  a  louis  d'or  from  her  pocket, 
she  handed  it  to  the  pastry-cook. 

"  This  is  the  price  agreed  upon,"  she  added. 

There  is  a  sort  of  poverty  which  the  poor 
are  quick  to  divine.  The  pastry-cook  and  his 
wife  looked  at  each  other  and  then  at  the  old 
lady,  exchanging  the  same  thought.  That 
louis  d'or  was  evidently  the  last.  The  lady's 
hands  trembled  as  she  held  out  that  coin,  at 
which  she  gazed  sorrowfully  but  without 
avarice;  but  she  seemed  to  realise  the  full 
extent  of  the  sacrifice.  Fasting  and  poverty 
were  written  upon  that  face,  in  lines  as  legible 

[120] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

as  those  of  fear  and  ascetic  habits.  There 
were  vestiges  of  past  splendour  in  her 
clothes:  they  were  worn  silk;  a  neat  though 
old-fashioned  cloak,  and  lace  carefully  mend- 
ed—  in  a  word,  the  rags  and  tatters  of 
opulence.  The  trades-people,  wavering  be- 
tween pity  and  self-interest,  began  by  reliev- 
ing their  consciences  in  words  : 

"  But,  citizeness,  you  seem  very  weak " 

"Would  madame  like  something  to  refresh 
herself?"  asked  the  woman,  cutting  her 
husband  short. 

"We  have  some  very  good  soup,"  added 
the  pastry-cook. 

"  It 's  so  cold!  perhaps  madame  was  chilled 
by  her  walk  ?  But  you  can  rest  here  and 
warm  yourself  a  little." 

"The  devil  is  not  as  black  as  he  is  painted," 
cried  the  pastry-cook. 

Won  by  the  kind  tone  of  the  charitable 
shopkeeper's  words,  'the  lady  admitted  that 
she  had  been  followed  by  a  stranger,  and  that 
she  was  afraid  to  return  home  alone. 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"  Is  that  all  ?"  replied  the  man  with  the  red 
cap.  "Wait  for  me,  citizeness." 

He  gave  the  louis  to  his  wife;  then,  im- 
pelled by  that  species  of  gratitude  which  finds 
its  way  into  the  heart  of  a  tradesman  when  he 
receives  an  extravagant  price  for  goods  of 
moderate  value,  he  went  to  don  his  National 
guardsman's  uniform,  took  his  hat,  thrust  his 
sabre  into  his  belt,  and  reappeared  under  arms. 
But  his  wife  had  had  time  to  reflect;  and,  as 
in  many  other  hearts,  reflection  closed  the 
open  hand  of  kindliness.  Perturbed  in  mind, 
and  fearing  that  her  husband  might  become 
involved  in  some  dangerous  affair,  the  pastry- 
cook's wife  tried  to  stop  him  by  pulling  the 
skirt  of  his  coat;  but,  obeying  a  charitable 
impulse,  the  good  man  at  once  offered  to  es- 
cort the  old  lady. 

"It  seems  that  the  man  who  frightened 
the  citizeness  is  still  prowling  about  the 
shop,"  said  the  young  woman,  nervously. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  the  lady  artlessly  replied. 

"Suppose  he  should  be  a  spy?    Suppose 

[122] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

it  was  a  conspiracy  ?  Don't  go  with  her,  and 
take  back  the  box." 

These  words,  whispered  in  the  pastry- 
cook's ear  by  his  wife,  congealed  the  im- 
promptu courage  which  had  moved  him. 

"  I  '11  just  go  out  and  say  two  words  to  him, 
and  rid  you  of  him  in  short  order!"  cried  the 
man,  opening  the  door  and  rushing  out. 

The  old  lady,  passive  as  a  child  and  almost 
dazed,  resumed  her  seat.  The  worthy  trades- 
man soon  reappeared;  his  face,  which  was 
naturally  red,  and  moreover  was  flushed  by 
the  heat  of  his  ovens,  had  suddenly  become 
livid;  he  was  so  terribly  frightened  that  his 
legs  trembled  and  his  eyes  resembled  a 
drunken  man's. 

"Do  you  mean  to  have  our  heads  cut  off, 
you  miserable  aristocrat  ? "  he  cried  angrily. 
"Just  let  us  see  your  heels;  don't  ever  show 
your  face  here  again,  and  don't  count  on  me 
to  supply  you  with  materials  for  a  conspiracy ! " 

As  he  spoke,  the  pastry-cook  tried  to  take 
from  the  old  lady  the  small  box,  which  she 

[133] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


had  put  in  one  of  her  pockets.  But  no  sooner 
did  the  man's  insolent  hands  touch  her  cloth- 
ing, than  the  stranger,  preferring  to  brave  the 
dangers  of  the  street  with  no  other  defender 
than  God,  rather  than  to  lose  what  she  had 
purchased,  recovered  the  agility  of  her  youth ; 
she  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it  abruptly, 
and  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  the  dazed  and 
trembling  woman  and  her  husband. 

As  soon  as  the  stranger  was  out  of  doors, 
she  walked  rapidly  away;  but  her  strength 
failed  her,  for  she  heard  the  snow  creak  be- 
neath the  heavy  step  of  the  spy,  by  whom 
she  was  pitilessly  followed.  She  was  obliged 
to  stop,  and  he  stopped;  she  dared  neither 
speak  to  him  nor  look  at  him,  whether  as  a 
result  of  the  fear  which  gripped  her  heart,  or 
from  lack  of  intelligence.  She  continued  her 
way,  walking  slowly;  thereupon  the  man 
slackened  his  pace,  so  as  to  remain  at  a  dis- 
tance, which  enabled  him  to  keep  his  eye 
upon  her.  He  seemed  to  be  the  very  shadow 
of  the  old  woman.  The  clock  was  striking 

f!24] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

nine  when  the  silent  couple  again  passed  the 
church  of  St. -Laurent.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
all  souls,  even  the  weakest,  that  a  feeling  of 
tranquillity  should  succeed  violent  agitation; 
for,  although  our  feelings  are  manifold,  our 
bodily  powers  are  limited.  And  so  the 
stranger,  meeting  with  no  injury  at  the  hands 
of  her  supposed  persecutor,  chose  to  discover 
in  him  a  secret  friend,  zealous  to  protect  her; 
she  recalled  all  the  circumstances  which  had 
attended  the  unknown's  appearance,  as  if  to 
find  plausible  arguments  in  favour  of  that  com- 
forting opinion;  and  she  took  pleasure  in  de- 
tecting good  rather  than  evil  intentions  in  his 
behaviour. 

Forgetting  the  terror  which  that  man  had 
inspired  in  the  pastry-cook,  she  walked  with 
an  assured  step  into  the  upper  parts  of  Fau- 
bourg St. -Martin.  After  half  an  hour  she 
reached  a  house  near  the  junction  of  the  main 
street  of  the  faubourg  and  that  which  leads 
to  the  Barriere  de  Pantin.  Even  to-day,  that 
spo\  is  one  of  the  most  solitary  in  all  Paris. 

[125] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


The  north  wind,  blowing  over  the  Buttes 
Chaumont  and  from  Belleville,  whistled 
through  the  houses,  or  rather  the  hovels,  scat- 
tered about  in  that  almost  uninhabited  valley, 
where  the  dividing  walls  are  built  of  earth  and 
bones.  That  desolate  spot  seemed  to  be  the 
natural  refuge  of  poverty  and  despair.  The 
man  who  had  persisted  in  following  the 
wretched  creature  who  was  bold  enough  to 
walk  through  those  silent  streets  at  night, 
seemed  impressed  by  the  spectacle  presented 
to  his  eyes.  He  became  thoughtful,  and  stood 
in  evident  hesitation,  in  the  dim  light  of  a  lan- 
tern whose  feeble  rays  barely  pierced  the  mist. 

Fear  gave  eyes  to  the  old  woman,  who 
fancied  that  she  could  detect  something  sin- 
ister in  the  stranger's  features;  her  forme* 
terror  reawoke,  and,  taking  advantage  of  the 
uncertainty  which  had  checked  his  advance, 
to  glide  in  the  darkness  towards  the  door  of 
the  solitary  house,  she  pressed  a  spring  and 
disappeared  with  magical  rapidity. 

The  stranger,  motionless  as  a  statue,  gazed 

[126] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

at  that  house,  which  was  in  some  measure 
the  -type  of  the  wretched  dwellings  of  the 
faubourg.  That  unstable  hovel,  built  of  rough 
stones,  was  covered  with  a  layer  of  yellow 
plaster,  so  cracked  that  it  seemed  in  dan- 
ger of  falling  before  the  slightest  gust  of 
wind.  The  roof,  of  dark  brown  tiles  cov- 
ered with  moss,  had  sunk  in  several  places 
so  that  it  seemed  likely  to  give  way  under  the 
weight  of  the  snow.  On  each  floor  there 
were  three  windows,  the  sashes  of  which, 
rotted  by  the  dampness  and  shrunken  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  made  it  clear  that  the  cold  air 
must  find  an  easy  entrance  into  the  rooms. 
That  isolated  house  resembled  an  old  tower 
which  time  had  forgotten  to  destroy.  A  faint 
light  shone  through  the  irregular  windows  of 
the  attic  at  the  top  of  the  tumble-down  struct- 
ure, while  all  the  rest  of  the  house  was  in  ab- 
solute darkness.  The  old  woman  climbed, 
not  without  difficulty,  the  steep,  rough  stair- 
case, which  was  supplied  with  a  rope  instead 
of  a  baluster;  she  knocked  softly  at  the  door 

[127] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


of  the  apartment  in  the  attic,  and  dropped 
hastily  upon  a  chair  which  an  old  man  offered 
her. 

"Hide!  hide  yourself!"  she  said.  "Al- 
though we  go  out  very  seldom,  everything  that 
we  do  is  known;  our  footsteps  are  watched." 

"What  is  there  new,  pray?"  asked  an- 
other old  woman  who  was  seated  by  the  fire. 

"The  man  who  was  prowling  around  the 
house  last  night  followed  me  to-night." 

At  these  words  the  three  occupants  of  the 
attic  looked  at  each  other  with  indications  of 
profound  terror  on  their  faces.  The  old  man 
was  the  least  moved  of  the  three,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  in  the  greatest  danger.  Under 
the  weight  of  a  great  calamity,  or  under  the 
yoke  of  persecution,  a  courageous  man  begins, 
so  to  speak,  by  preparing  to  sacrifice  himself; 
he  looks  upon  his  days  simply  as  so  many 
victories  over  destiny.  The  eyes  of  the  two 
women,  fastened  upon  this  old  man,  made  it 
easy  to  divine  that  he  was  the  sole  objec* 
of  their  intense  anxiety. 

£128] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

"Why  despair  of  God,  my  sisters?"  he 
said  in  a  low  but  powerful  voice.  "We  sang 
His  praises  amid  the  cries  of  the  assassins  and 
the  shrieks  of  the  dying  at  the  Carmelite  con- 
vent. If  He  decreed  that  I  should  be  saved 
from  that  butchery,  it  was  doubtless  because 
He  reserved  me  for  another  destiny,  which  I 
must  accept  without  a  murmur.  God  pro- 
tects His  people,  He  may  dispose  of  them  at 
His  pleasure.  It  is  of  you,  not  of  me,  we  must 
think." 

"No,"  said  one  of  the  old  women;  "what 
are  our  lives  compared  with  that  of  a  priest  ?  '' 

"When  once  I  found  myself  outside  of  the 
Abbey  of  Chelles,  I  looked  upon  myself  as 
dead,"  said  that  one  of  the  two  women  who 
had  not  gone  out. 

"  Here,"  replied  the  other,  handing  the  priest 
the  little  box,  "  here  are  the  wafers. — But,  "she 
cried,  "  I  hear  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs." 

Thereupon  all  three  listened  intently.  The 
noise  ceased. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  the  priest,  "  if 

9  [129] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


some  one  should  try  to  enter.  A  person 
upon  whose  fidelity  we  can  rely  has  undoubt- 
edly taken  all  necessary  measures  to  cross  the 
frontier,  and  will  come  here  to  get  the  letters 
which  I  have  written  to  the  Due  de  Langeais 
and  to  the  Marquis  de  Beauseant,  asking  them 
to  consider  the  means  of  rescuing  you  from 
this  terrible  country,  from  the  death  or  desti 
tution  which  awaits  you  here." 

"Then  you  do  not  mean  to  go  with  us?" 
cried  the  two  nuns  gently,  with  manifestations 
of  despair. 

"  My  place  is  where  there  are  victims,"  said 
the  priest  simply. 

They  held  their  peace  and  gazed  at  their 
companion  with  devout  admiration. 

"Sister  Martha,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
nun  who  had  gone  to  buy  the  wafers,  "the 
messenger  I  speak  of  will  reply  f  Fiat -voluntas ' 
to  the  word  '  Hosanna. ' ' 

"There  is  some  one  on  the  stairs!"  cried 
the  other  nun,  opening  the  door  of  a  hiding- 
place  under  the  lower  part  of  the  roof. 

F180) 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

This  time  they  could  plainly  hear,  amid  the 
profound  silence,  the  footsteps  of  a  man  upon 
the  stairs,  which  were  covered  with  ridges 
of  hardened  mud.  The  priest  crept  with  diffi- 
culty into  a  sort  of  cupboard,  and  the  nuns 
threw  over  him  a  few  pieces  of  apparel. 

"You  may  close  the  door,  Sister  Agatha," 
he  said  in  a  muffled  voice. 

The  priest  was  hardly  hidden  when  three 
taps  on  the  door  caused  a  shock  to  the  two 
holy  women,  who  consulted  each  other  with 
their  eyes,  afraid  to  utter  a  single  word.  Each 
of  them  seemed  to  be  about  sixty  years  old. 
Secluded  from  the  world  for  forty  years,  they 
were  like  plants  habituated  to  the  air  of  a  hot- 
house, which  wilt  if  they  are  taken  from  it. 
Accustomed  to  the  life  of  a  convent,  they  were 
unable  to  imagine  any  other  life.  One  morn- 
ing, their  gratings  having  been  shattered, 
they  shuddered  to  find  themselves  free.  One 
can  readily  imagine  the  species  of  imbecility 
which  the  events  of  the  Revolution  had  pro- 
duced in  their  innocent  minds.  Incapable  of 

1331] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


reconciling  their  conventual  ideas  with  the 
difficult  problems  of  life,  and  not  even  un- 
derstanding their  situation,  they  resembled 
children  who  had  been  zealously  cared  for 
hitherto,  and  who,  deserted  by  their  motherly 
protector,  prayed  instead  of  weeping.  And 
so,  in  face  of  the  danger  which  they  ap- 
prehended at  that  moment,  they  remained 
mute  and  passive,  having  no  conception  of 
any  other  defence  than  Christian  resignation. 

The  man  who  desired  to  enter  interpreted 
that  silence  to  suit  himself;  he  opened  the 
door  and  appeared  abruptly  before  them. 
The  two  nuns  shuddered  as  they  recognised 
the  man  who  had  been  prowling  about  their 
house,  making  inquiries  about  them,  for 
some  time.  They  did  not  move,  but  gazed 
at  him  with  anxious  curiosity,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  children  of  savage  tribes,  who 
examine  strangers  in  silence.  He  was  tall 
and  stout;  but  there  was  nothing  in  his  man- 
ner, or  appearance,  to  indicate  an  evil-minded 
man.  He  imitated  the  immobility  of  the  nuns, 

[132] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

and  moved  his  eyes  slowly  about  the  room  in 
which  he  stood. 

Two  straw  mats,  laid  upon  boards,  served 
the  two  nuns  as  beds.  There  was  a  single 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  upon  it  a 
copper  candlestick,  a  few  plates,  three  knives, 
and  a  round  loaf.  The  fire  on  the  hearth  was 
very  low,  and  a  few  sticks  of  wood  piled  in  a 
corner  testified  to  the  poverty  of  the  two  oc- 
cupants. The  walls,  covered  with  an  ancient 
layer  of  paint,  demonstrated  the  wretched 
condition  of  the  roof,  for  stains  like  brown 
threads  marked  the  intrusion  of  the  rain- 
water. A  relic,  rescued  doubtless  during  the 
pillage  of  the  Abbey  of  Chelles,  adorned  the 
mantel.  Three  chairs,  two  chests,  and  a 
wretched  commode  completed  the  furniture 
of  the  room.  A  door  beside  the  chimney 
indicated  the  existence  of  an  inner  chamber. 

The  inventory  of  the  cell  was  speedily  made 
by  the  person  who  had  thrust  himself  into 
the  bosom  of  that  group  under  such  alarm- 
ing auspices.  A  sentiment  of  compassion  was 

[133] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


expressed  upon  his  face,  and  he  cast  a  kindly 
glance  upon  the  two  women,  but  seemed  at 
least  as  embarrassed  as  they.  The  strange 
silence  preserved  by  all  three  lasted  but  a 
short  time,  for  the  stranger  at  last  divined  the 
mental  weakness  and  the  inexperience  of  the 
two  poor  creatures,  and  he  said  to  them  in  a 
voice  which  he  tried  to  soften:  "I  do  not 
come  here  as  an  enemy,  citizenesses." 

He  paused,  and  then  resumed :  "  My  sisters, 
if  any  misfortune  should  happen  to  you,  be 
sure  that  I  have  had  no  part  in  it.  I  have  a 
favour  to  ask  of  you." 

They  still  remained  silent. 

"If  I  annoy  you,  if  I  embarrass  you,  tell  me 
so  frankly,  and  I  will  go;  but  understand  that 
I  am  entirely  devoted  to  you;  that  if  there  is 
any  service  that  I  can  do  you,  you  may 
employ  me  without  fear;  that  I  alone  perhaps 
am  above  the  law,  as  there  is  no  longer  a 
king." 

There  was  such  a  ring  of  truth  in  these 
words  that  Sister  Agatha,  the  one  of  the  two 

[134] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

nuns  who  belonged  to  the  family  of  Langeais, 
and  whose  manners  seemed  to  indicate  that 
she  had  formerly  been  familiar  with  magni- 
ficent festivities  and  had  breathed  the  air  of 
courts,  instantly  pointed  to  one  of  the  chairs, 
as  if  to  request  their  guest  to  be  seated.  The 
stranger  manifested  a  sort  of  mixture  of  pleas- 
ure and  melancholy  when  he  saw  that  gesture; 
and  he  waited  until  the  two  venerable  women 
were  seated,  before  seating  himself. 

"You  have  given  shelter,"  he  continued, 
"to  a  venerable  unsworn  priest,  who  miracul- 
ously escaped  the  massacre  at  the  Carmelite 
convent." 

"  Hosanna!  "  said  Sister  Agatha,  interrupt- 
ing the  stranger,  and  gazing  at  him  with 
anxious  interest. 

"I  don't  think  that  that  is  his  name,"  he 
replied. 

"  But,  monsieur,"  said  Sister  Martha  hastily, 
"  we  have  n't  any  priest  here,  and " 

"In  that  case  you  must  be  more  careful  and 
more  prudent,"  retorted  the  stranger  gently, 

[135] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


reaching  to  the  table  and  taking  up  a  breviary. 
"I  do  not  believe  that  you  know  Latin,  and 


He  did  not  continue,  for  the  extraordinary 
emotion  depicted  on  the  faces  of  the  unhappy 
nuns  made  him  feel  that  he  had  gone  too  far; 
they  were  trembling,  and  their  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  said  to  them  cheer- 
ily;  "I  know  the  name  of  your  guest  and  your 
names ;  and  three  days  ago  I  was  informed  of 
your  destitution  and  of  your  devotion  to  the 
venerable  Abbe  of " 

"Hush!"  said  Sister  Agatha  innocently, 
putting  her  finger  to  her  lips. 

"You  see,  my  sisters,  that  if  I  had  formed 
the  detestable  plan  of  betraying  you,  I  might 
already  have  done  it  more  than  once." 

When  he  heard  these  words,  the  priest 
emerged  from  his  prison  and  appeared  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  I  cannot  believe,  monsieur,"  he  said  to  the 
stranger,  "that  you  are  one  of  our  persecut- 

[186] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

ors,  and  I  trust  you.  What  do  you  Want 
with  me  ?  " 

The  priest's  saintlike  confidence,  the  nobil- 
ity of  soul  that  shone  in  all  his  features,  would 
have  disarmed  an  assassin.  The  mysterious 
personage  who  had  enlivened  that  scene  of 
destitution  and  resignation  gazed  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  group  formed  by  those  three; 
then  he  assumed  a  confidential  tone,  and  ad- 
dressed the  priest  in  these  words: 

"Father,  I  have  come  to  implore  you  to 
celebrate  a  mortuary  mass  for  the  repose  of 
the  soul  of  a — a  consecrated  person,  whose 
body,  however,  will  never  lie  in  holy  ground." 

The  priest  involuntarily  shuddered.  The 
two  nuns,  not  understanding  as  yet  to  whom 
the  stranger  referred,  stood  with  necks  out- 
stretched, and  faces  turned  towards  the  two 
men,  in  an  attitude  of  intense  curiosity.  The 
priest  scrutinised  the  stranger;  unfeigned  anx- 
iety was  depicted  upon  his  face,  and  his  eyes 
expressed  the  most  ardent  entreaty. 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  priest;  "to-night, 

[137] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


at  midnight,  return  here,  and  I  shall  be  ready 
to  celebrate  the  only  funeral  service  which  we 
can  offer  in  expiation  of  the  crime  to  which 
you  refer." 

The  stranger  started ;  but  a  feeling  of  satis- 
faction, at  once  grateful  and  solemn,  seemed 
to  triumph  over  some  secret  grief.  Having  re- 
spectfully saluted  the  priest  and  the  two  holy 
women,  he  disappeared,  manifesting  a  sort  of 
mute  gratitude  which  was  understood  by 
those  three  noble  hearts.  About  two  hours 
after  this  scene  the  stranger  returned,  knocked 
softly  at  the  attic  door,  and  was  admitted  by 
Mademoiselle  de  Beauseant,  who  escorted  him 
into  the  second  room  of  that  humble  lodging, 
where  everything  had  been  prepared  for  the 
ceremony. 

Between  two  flues  of  the  chimney,  the 
nuns  had  placed  the  old  commode,  whose 
antiquated  shape  was  covered  by  a  magnifi- 
cent altar-cloth  of  green  silk.  A  large  cruci- 
fix of  ebony  and  ivory,  fastened  upon  the 
discoloured  wall,  heightened  the  effect  of  its 

[138] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

bareness  and  inevitably  attracted  the  eye. 
Four  slender  little  tapers,  which  the  sisters 
had  succeeded  in  standing  upon  that  impro- 
vised altar  by  fixing  them  in  sealing-wax, 
cast  a  pale  light,  which  the  wall  reflected 
dimly.  That  faint  gleam  barely  lighted  the 
rest  of  the  room ;  but,  in  that  it  confined  its 
illumination  to  the  consecrated  objects,  it  re- 
sembled a  ray  of  light  from  heaven  upon 
that  undecorated  altar.  The  floor  was  damp. 
The  attic  roof,  which  sloped  sharply  on  both 
sides,  had  various  cracks  through  which  a 
biting  wind  blew.  Nothing  less  stately  could 
be  imagined,  and  yet  perhaps  there  could  be 
nothing  more  solemn  than  this  lugubrious 
ceremony. 

A  silence  so  profound  that  it  would  have 
enabled  them  to  hear  the  faintest  sound  on 
distant  thoroughfares,  diffused  a  sort  of  som- 
bre majesty  over  that  nocturnal  scene.  In 
short,  the  grandeur  of  the  occasion  contrasted 
so  strikingly  with  the  poverty  of  the  sur- 
roundings that  the  result  was  a  sensation  of 

[189]     . 


Honore  de  Balzac 


religious  awe.  The  two  old  nuns,  kneeling 
on  the  damp  floor  on  either  side  of  the  altar, 
heedless  of  the  deadly  moisture,  prayed  in 
unison  with  the  priest,  who,  clad  in  his  pon- 
tifical vestments,  prepared  a  golden  chalice 
adorned  with  precious  stones,  a  consecrated 
vessel  rescued  doubtless  from  the  plunderers 
of  the  Abbey  of  Chelles.  Beside  that  pyx, 
an  object  of  regal  magnificence,  were  the 
water  and  wine  destined  for  the  sacrament, 
in  two  glasses  hardly  worthy  of  the  lowest 
tavern.  In  default  of  a  missal,  the  priest  had 
placed  his  breviary  on  a  corner  of  the  altar. 
A  common  plate  was  provided  for  the  wash- 
ing of  those  innocent  hands,  pure  of  blood- 
shed. All  was  majestic,  and  yet  paltry; 
poor,  but  noble;  profane  and  holy  in  one. 
The  stranger  knelt  piously  between  the  two 
nuns.  But  suddenly,  when  he  noticed  a  band 
of  crape  on  the  chalice  and  on  the  crucifix — 
for,  having  nothing  to  indicate  the  purpose  of 
that  mortuary  mass,  the  priest  had  draped 
God  Himself  in  mourning — he  was  assailed 

[140] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

by  such  an  overpowering  memory  that  drops 
of  sweat  gathered  upon  his  broad  forehead. 
The  four  silent  actors  in  that  scene  gazed  at 
each  other  mysteriously;  then  their  hearts, 
acting  upon  one  another,  communicated  their 
sentiments  to  each  other  and  became  blended 
into  the  one  emotion  of  religious  pity;  it  was 
as  if  their  thoughts  had  evoked  the  royal 
martyr  whose  remains  had  been  consumed 
by  quicklime,  but  whose  shade  stood  before 
them  in  all  its  royal  majesty.  They  celebrated 
an  obit  without  the  body  of  the  deceased. 
Beneath  those  disjointed  tiles  and  laths,  four 
Christians  interceded  with  God  for  a  king  of 
France,  and  performed  his  obsequies  without 
a  bier.  It  was  the  purest  of  all  possible  de- 
votions, an  amazing  act  of  fidelity  performed 
without  one  thought  of  self.  Doubtless,  in 
the  eyes  of  God,  it  was  like  the  glass  of  water 
which  is  equal  to  the  greatest  virtues.  The 
whole  of  monarchy  was  there,  in  the  prayers 
of  a  priest  and  of  two  poor  nuns;  but  perhaps 
the  Revolution,  too,  was  represented,  by  that 

[1411 


Honore  de  Balzac 


man  whose  face  betrayed  too  much  remorse 
not  to  cause  a  belief  that  he  was  acting  in 
obedience  to  an  impulse  of  unbounded  re- 
pentance. 

Instead  of  saying  the  Latin  words:  "Introibo 
ad  altar e  Dei,"  etc.,  the  priest,  obeying  a 
divine  inspiration,  looked  at  the  three  persons 
who  represented  Christian  France,  and  said  to 
them,  in  words  which  effaced  the  poverty  of 
that  wretched  place: 

"  We  are  about  to  enter  into  God's  sanc- 
tuary! " 

At  these  words,  uttered  with  most  im- 
pressive unction,  a  thrill  of  holy  awe  seized 
the  stranger  and  the  two  nuns.  Not  beneath 
the  arches  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  could  God 
have  appeared  with  more  majesty  than  He 
then  appeared  in  that  abode  of  poverty,  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  those  Christians;  so  true  it  is 
that  between  man  and  Him  every  intermediary 
seems  useless,  and  that  He  derives  His  grand- 
eur from  Himself  alone.  The  stranger's  fer- 
vour was  genuine,  so  that  the  sentiment 

[142]        - 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

which  joined  the  prayers  of  those  four  ser- 
vants of  God  and  the  king  was  unanimous. 
The  sacred  words  rang  out  like  celestial 
music  amid  the  silence.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment when  tears  choked  the  stranger's  voice; 
it  was  during  the  paternoster.  The  priest 
added  to  it  this  Latin  prayer,  which  the 
stranger  evidently  understood:  "  Et  remitte 
scelus  regicidis  sicut  Ludovicus  eis  remisit 
semetipse  !  (And  forgive  the  regicides  even  as 
Louis  XVI.  himself  forgave  them!)." 

The  two  nuns  saw  two  great  tears  leave  a 
moist  trace  on  the  manly  cheeks  of  the  stran- 
ger, and  fall  to  the  floor.  The  Office  of  the 
Dead  was  recited.  The  Domine  salvum  fac 
regem,  chanted  in  a  low  voice,  touched  the 
hearts  of  those  faithful  royalists,  who  reflected 
that  the  infant  king,  for  whom  they  were  pray- 
ing to  the  Most  High  at  that  moment,  was  a 
prisoner  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  The 
stranger  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  there 
might  still  be  committed  a  new  crime,  in 
which  he  would  doubtless  be  compelled  to 

[143] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


take  part.  When  the  service  was  at  an  end, 
the  priest  motioned  to  the  two  nuns  to  with- 
draw. As  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  the 
stranger,  he  walked  towards  him  with  a  mild 
and  melancholy  expression,  and  said  to  him 
in  a  fatherly  tone: 

"My  son,  if  you  have  dipped  your  hands  in 
the  blood  of  the  martyr  king,  confess  to  me. 
There  is  no  sin  which,  in  God's  eyes,  may  not 
be  effaced  by  repentance  so  touching  and  so 
sincere  as  yours  seems  to  be." 

At  the  first  words  of  the  priest,  the  stranger 
made  an  involuntary  gesture  of  terror;  but  his 
face  resumed  its  tranquillity,  and  he  met  the 
astonished  priest's  eye  with  calm  assurance. 

"Father,"  he  said  to  him  in  a  perceptibly 
tremulous  voice,  "no  one  is  more  innocent 
than  I  of  bloodshed." 

"I  am  bound  to  believe  you,"  said  the 
priest. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  he  ex- 
amined the  penitent  more  closely;  then,  per- 
sisting in  taking  him  for  one  of  those  timid 

[144] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

members  of  the  Convention  who  sacrificed  a 
consecrated  and  inviolate  head  in  order  to 
preserve  their  own,  he  continued  in  a  solemn 
voice: 

"Remember,  my  son,  that  to  be  absolved 
from  that  great  crime,  it  is  not  enough  not  to 
have  actually  taken  part  in  it.  Those  who, 
when  they  might  have  defended  their  king,  left 
their  swords  in  the  scabbard,  will  have  a  very 
heavy  account  to  settle  with  the  King  of 
Heaven.  Ah,  yes!"  added  the  old  priest, 
shaking  his  head  with  a  most  expressive  move- 
ment, "yes,  very  heavy!  for,  by  remaining 
idle,  they  became  the  involuntary  accom- 
plices of  that  ghastly  crime." 

"Do  you  think,"  inquired  the  thunderstruck 
stranger,  "that  indirect  participation  will  be 
punished  ?  Is  the  soldier  guilty  who  is  or- 
dered to  join  the  shooting-squad  ?  " 

The  priest  hesitated.  Pleased  with  the  di- 
lemma in  which  he  had  placed  that  puritan  of 
royalty  by  planting  him  between  the  dogma 
of  passive  obedience,  which,  according  to  the 

to  [145] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


partisans  of  monarchy,  should  be  predomin- 
ant in  all  military  codes,  and  the  no  less  im- 
portant dogma  which  sanctifies  the  respect  due 
to  the  person  of  kings,  the  stranger  was  too 
quick  to  see  in  the  priest's  hesitation  a  favour- 
able solution  of  the  doubts  by  which  he 
seemed  to  be  perturbed.  Then,  in  order  to 
give  the  venerable  Jansenist  no  longer  time  to 
reflect,  he  said  to  him: 

"I  should  blush  to  offer  you  any  sort  of 
compensation  for  the  funeral  service  which 
you  have  just  performed  for  the  repose  of  the 
king's  soul  and  for  the  relief  of  my  conscience. 
A  thing  of  inestimable  value  can  be  paid  for 
only  by  an  offering  which  is  beyond  all  price. 
Deign,  therefore,  to  accept,  monsieur,  the  gift 
that  I  offer  you  of  a  blessed  relic.  The  day 
will  come,  perhaps,  when  you  will  realise  its 
value." 

As  he  said  this,  the  stranger  handed  the 
ecclesiastic  a  small  box  of  light  weight  ; 
the  priest  took  it  involuntarily,  so  to  speak, 
for  the  solemnity  of  the  man's  words,  the 

1146] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

tone  in  which  he  said  them,  and  the  respect 
with  which  he  handled  the  box,  had  surprised 
him  beyond  measure.  They  returned  then  to 
the  room  where  the  two  nuns  were  awaiting 
them. 

"You  are,"  said  the  stranger,  "in  a  house 
whose  owner,  Mucius  Scaevola,  the  plasterer 
who  lives  on  the  first  floor,  is  famous  through- 
out the  section  for  his  patriotism;  but  he  is 
secretly  attached  to  the  Bourbons.  He  used 
to  be  a  huntsman  in  the  service  of  Monseign- 
eur  le  Prince  de  Conti,  and  he  owes  his  fort- 
une to  him.  If  you  do  not  go  out  of  his 
house,  you  are  safer  than  in  any  place  in 
France.  Stay  here.  Devout  hearts  will  at- 
tend to  your  necessities,  and  you  may  await 
without  danger  less  evil  times.  A  year  hence, 
on  the  twenty-first  of  January  (as  he  men- 
tioned the  date  he  could  not  restrain  an  invol- 
untary gesture),  if  you  continue  to  occupy 
this  dismal  apartment,  I  will  return  to  cele- 
brate again  a  mass  of  expiation." 

He  said  no  more.     He  bowed  to  the  silent 

[1471 


Honore  de  Balzac 


occupants  of  the  attic,  cast  a  last  glance  upon 
the  evidences  of  their  poverty,  and  went  away. 

To  the  two  innocent  nuns,  such  an  advent- 
ure had  all  the  interest  of  a  romance;  and  so, 
as  soon  as  the  venerable  abbe  informed  them 
of  the  mysterious  gift  so  solemnly  bestowed 
upon  him  by  that  man,  the  box  was  placed 
upon  the  table  and  the  three  anxious  faces, 
dimly  lighted  by  the  candle,  betrayed  an 
indescribable  curiosity.  Mademoiselle  de 
Langeais  opened  the  box,  and  found  therein 
a  handkerchief  of  finest  linen,  drenched  with 
perspiration;  and,  on  unfolding  it,  they  saw 
stains. 

"  It  is  blood!  "  said  the  priest. 

"  It  is  marked  with  the  royal  crown!  "  cried 
the  other  nun. 

The  two  sisters  dropped  the  precious  relic 
with  a  gesture  of  horror.  To  those  two  in- 
genuous souls  the  mystery  in  which  the 
stranger  was  enveloped  became  altogether 
inexplicable;  and  as  for  the  priest,  from  that 
day  he  did  not  even  seek  an  explanation  of  it. 

[148] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

The  three  prisoners  soon  perceived  that  a 
powerful  arm  was  stretched  over  them,  in 
spite  of  the  Terror. 

In  the  first  place,  they  received  a  supply 
of  wood  and  provisions;  then  the  two  nuns 
realised  that  a  woman  must  be  associated 
with  their  protector,  when  some  one  sent 
them  linen  and  clothing  which  enabled  them 
to  go  out  without  being  noticed  by  reason  of 
the  aristocratic  cut  of  the  garments  which 
they  had  been  forced  to  retain;  and  lastly, 
Mucius  Scaevola  gave  them  two  cards  of  citi- 
zenship. It  often  happened  that  information 
essential  to  the  priest's  safety  reached  him  by 
devious  ways;  and  he  found  this  advice  so 
opportune  that  it  could  have  been  given  only 
by  somebody  initiated  in  state  secrets. 

Despite  the  famine  which  prevailed  in  Paris, 
the  outcasts  found  at  the  door  of  their  lodg- 
ing rations  of  white  bread,  which  was  brought 
there  regularly  by  invisible  hands;  they  be- 
lieved, however,  that  they  could  identify  Mu- 
cius Scaevola  as  the  mysterious  agent  of  this 

[1491 


Honore  de  Balzac 


beneficence,  which  was  always  as  ingenious 
as  it  was  timely.  The  noble  occupants  of  the 
attic  could  not  doubt  that  their  protector  was 
the  person  who  had  come  to  ask  the  priest 
to  celebrate  the  mortuary  mass  on  the  eve- 
ning of  the  twenty-second  of  January,  1793; 
so  that  he  became  the  object  of  a  peculiar  sort 
of  worship  to  those  three  beings,  who  had 
no  hope  except  in  him,  and  lived  only  through 
him.  They  had  added  special  prayers  for 
him  to  their  daily  devotions;  night  and  morn- 
ing those  pious  souls  offered  up  entreaties  for 
his  happiness,  for  his  prosperity,  for  his  salva- 
tion, and  prayed  to  God  to  rescue  him  from 
all  snares,  to  deliver  him  from  his  enemies, 
and  to  grant  him  a  long  and  peaceful  life. 
Their  gratitude,  being  renewed  every  day,  so 
to  speak,  was  necessarily  accompanied  by  a 
feeling  of  curiosity  which  became  more  in- 
tense from  day  to  day.  The  circumstances 
which  had  attended  the  appearance  of  the 
stranger  were  the  subject  of  their  conversa- 
tion; they  formed  innumerable  conjectures 

[150] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

about  him,  and  the  diversion  which  their  pre- 
occupation with  him  afforded  them  was  a 
benefaction  of  a  new  sort.  They  were  fully 
determined  not  to  allow  the  stranger  to  evade 
their  friendship  when  he  should  return,  ac- 
cording to  his  promise,  to  commemorate  the 
sad  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Louis  XVI. 

That  night,  so  impatiently  awaited,  came  at 
last.  At  midnight  they  heard  the  sound  of 
the  stranger's  heavy  steps  on  the  old,  wooden 
staircase;  the  room  had  been  arrayed  to  re- 
ceive him,  the  altar  was  in  place.  This  time 
the  sisters  opened  the  door  beforehand  and 
went  forth  eagerly  to  light  the  staircase. 
Mademoiselle  de  Langeais  even  went  down 
a  few  steps  in  order  to  see  her  benefactor  the 
sooner. 

"Come,"  she  said  to  him  in  a  tremulous 
and  affectionate  voice,  "come,  we  are  wait- 
ing for  you." 

The  man  raised  his  head,  cast  a  gloomy 
glance  upon  the  nun,  and  made  no  reply. 
She  felt  as  if  a  garment  of  ice  had  fallen  upon 

[1511 


Honore  de  Balzac 


her,  and  she  said  no  more;  at  sight  of  him, 
gratitude  and  curiosity  expired  in  all  their 
hearts.  He  may  have  been  less  cold,  less  silent, 
less  awe-inspiring  than  he  appeared  to  those 
poor  souls,  whom  the  exaltation  of  their  feel- 
ing inclined  to  an  outpouring  of  friendliness. 
The  three  unhappy  prisoners,  understanding 
that  he  proposed  to  remain  a  stranger  to 
them,  resigned  themselves  to  it.  The  priest 
fancied  that  he  detected  upon  the  stranger's 
lips  a  smile  that  was  instantly  repressed  when 
he  saw  the  preparations  that  had  been  made 
to  receive  him.  He  heard  the  mass  and 
prayed;  but  he  disappeared  after  responding 
by  a  few  words  of  negative  courtesy  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Langeais's  invitation  to  share  the 
little  supper  they  had  prepared. 

After  the  ninth  of  Thermidor  the  nuns  were 
able  to  go  about  Paris  without  danger.  The 
old  priest's  first  errand  was  to  a  perfumer's 
shop,  at  the  sign  of  La  Reine  des  Fleurs, 
kept  by  Citizen  and  Citizeness  Ragon,  form- 
erly perfumers  to  the  Court,  who  had  remained 

[152] 


An  Episode  under  the  Terror 

true  to  the  royal  family,  and  of  whose  services 
the  Vendeans  availed  themselves  to  correspond 
with  the  princes  and  the  royalist  committee 
in  Paris.  The  abbe,  dressed  according  to  the 
style  of  the  period,  was  standing  on  the  door- 
step of  that  shop,  between  St.-Roch  and  Rue 
des  Frondeurs,  when  a  crowd  which  filled  Rue 
St.-Honore  prevented  him  from  going  out. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked  Madame  Ragon. 

"Oh!  it  's  nothing,"  she  replied;  "just 
the  tumbril  and  the  executioner,  going  to  the 
Place  Louis  XV.  Ah !  we  saw  him  very  often 
last  year;  but  to-day,  four  days  after  the  anni- 
versary of  the  twenty-first  of  January,  we 
can  look  at  that  horrible  procession  without 
distress." 

"Why  so?"  said  the  abbe;  "what  you 
say  is  not  Christian." 

"Why,  it's  the  execution  of  Robespierre's 
accomplices;  they  defended  themselves  as 
long  as  they  could,  but  they  're  going  now 
themselves  where  they  have  sent  so  many 
innocent  people." 

[158] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


The  crowd  passed  like  a  flood.  Abbe  de 
Marolles,  yielding  to  an  impulse  of  curiosity, 
saw  over  the  sea  of  heads,  standing  on  the 
tumbril,  the  man  who,  three  days  before,  had 
listened  to  his  mass. 

"Who  is  that,"  he  said,  "that  man 
who " 

"That  is  the  headsman,"  replied  Monsieur 
Ragon,  giving  the  executioner  his  monarchical 
name. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,"  cried  Madame  Ragon, 
"  monsieur  1'abbe  is  fainting!  " 

And  the  old  woman  seized  a  phial  of  salts, 
in  order  to  bring  the  old  priest  to  himself. 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  old  priest,  "he  gave 
me  the  handkerchief  with  which  the  king 
wiped  his  brow  when  he  went  to  his  martyr- 
dom! Poor  man!  That  steel  knife  had  a 
heart,  when  all  France  had  none! " 

The  perfumers  thought  that  the  unfortunate 
priest  was  delirious. 

1830. 

[164J 


La  Grande  Breteche 


La  Grande  Breteche 

ABOUT  one  hundred  yards  from  Venddme, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  there  stands 
an  old  dark-coloured  house,  surmounted  by  a 
very  high  roof,  and  so  completely  isolated 
that  there  is  not  in  the  neighbourhood  a  single 
evil-smelling  tannery  or  wretched  inn,  such  as 
we  see  in  the  outskirts  of  almost  every  small 
town.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  small  garden 
bordering  the  river,  in  which  the  boxwood 
borders  of  the  paths,  once  neatly  trimmed, 
now  grow  at  their  pleasure.  A  few  willows, 
born  in  the  Loire,  have  grown  as  rapidly  as 
the  hedge  which  encloses  the  garden,  and 
half  conceal  the  house.  The  plants  which  we 
call  weeds  adorn  the  slope  of  the  bank  with 
their  luxuriant  vegetation.  The  fruit-trees, 
neglected  for  ten  years,  bear  no  fruit;  their 
offshoots  form  a  dense  undergrowth.  The 
espaliers  resemble  hornbeam  hedges.  The 

[167] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


paths,  formerly  gravelled,  are  overrun  with 
purslane;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  there  are  no 
well-marked  paths. 

From  the  top  of  the  mountain  upon  which 
hang  the  ruins  of  the  old  chateau  of  the  Dukes 
of  Vendome,  the  only  spot  from  which  the 
eye  can  look  into  this  enclosure,  you  would 
say  to  yourself  that,  at  a  period  which  it  is 
difficult  to  determine,  that  little  nook  was  the 
delight  of  some  gentleman  devoted  to  roses 
and  tulips,  to  horticulture  in  short,  but  espe- 
cially fond  of  fine  fruit.  You  espy  an  arbour, 
or  rather  the  ruins  of  an  arbour,  beneath 
which  a  table  still  stands,  not  yet  entirely 
consumed  by  time.  At  sight  of  that  garden, 
which  is  no  longer  a  garden,  one  may  divine 
the  negative  delights  of  the  peaceful  life  which 
provincials  lead,  as  one  divines  the  existence 
of  a  worthy  tradesman  by  reading  the  epitaph 
on  his  tombstone.  To  round  out  the  melan- 
choly yet  soothing  thoughts  which  fill  the 
mind,  there  is  on  one  of  the  walls  a  sun-dial, 
embellished  with  this  commonplace  Christian 

[158] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


inscription :  ULTIMAM  COGITA.  The  roof  of  the 
house  is  terribly  dilapidated,  the  blinds  are 
always  drawn,  the  balconies  are  covered  with 
swallow's-nests,  the  doors  are  never  opened. 
Tall  weeds  mark  with  green  lines  the  cracks 
in  the  steps;  the  ironwork  is  covered  with 
rust.  Moon,  sun,  winter,  summer,  snow, 
have  rotted  the  wood,  warped  the  boards, 
and  corroded  the  paint. 

The  deathly  silence  which  reigns  there  is 
disturbed  only  by  the  birds,  the  cats,  the 
martens,  the  rats  and  the  mice,  which  are  at 
liberty  to  run  about,  to  fight,  and  to  eat  one 
another  at  their  will.  An  invisible  hand  has 
written  everywhere  the  word  MYSTERY.  If, 
impelled  by  curiosity,  you  should  go  to  in- 
spect the  house  on  the  street  side,  you  would 
see  a  high  gate  arched  at  the  top,  in  which 
the  children  of  the  neighbourhood  have  made 
numberless  holes.  1  learned  later  that  that 
gate  had  been  condemned  ten  years  before. 
Through  these  irregular  breaches  you  would 
be  able  to  observe  the  perfect  harmony 

f!59] 


Honor6  de  Balzac 


between  the  garden  front  and-  the  courtyard 
front.  The  same  disorder  reigns  supreme  in 
both.  Tufts  of  weeds  surround  the  pave- 
ments. Enormous  cracks  furrow  the  walls, 
whose  blackened  tops  are  enlaced  by  the 
countless  tendrils  of  climbing  plants.  The 
steps  are  wrenched  apart,  the  bell-rope  is  rot- 
ten, the  gutters  are  broken.  "  What  fire  from 
heaven  has  passed  this  way  ?  What  tribunal 
has  ordered  salt  to  be  strewn  upon  this  dwell- 
ing ?  Has  God  been  insulted  here  ?  Has  France 
been  betrayed?"  Such  are  the  questions 
which  one  asks  one's  self.  The  reptiles  crawl 
hither  and  thither  without  answering.  That 
empty  and  deserted  house  is  an  immense  rid- 
dle, the  solution  of  which  is  known  to  no  one. 
It  was  formerly  a  small  feudal  estate  and 
bore  the  name  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  Dur- 
ing my  stay  at  Vendome,  where  Desplein  had 
left  me  to  attend  a  rich  patient,  the  aspect  of 
that  strange  building  became  one  of  my  keen- 
est pleasures.  Was  it  not  more  than  a  mere 

ruin  ?    Some  souvenirs  of  undeniable  authen- 
rieo] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


ticity  are  always  connected  with  a  ruin;  but 
that  abode,  still  standing,  although  in  process 
of  gradual  demolition  by  an  avenging  hand, 
concealed  a  secret,  an  unknown  thought;  at 
the  very  least,  it  betrayed  a  caprice.  More 
than  once,  in  the  evening,  I  wandered  in  the 
direction  of  the  hedge,  now  wild  and  uncared 
for,  which  surrounded  that  enclosure.  I  de- 
fied scratches,  and  made  my  way  into  that 
ownerless  garden,  that  estate  which  was 
neither  public  nor  private;  and  I  remained 
whole  hours  there  contemplating  its  disarray. 
Not  even  to  learn  the  story  which  would 
doubtless  account  for  that  extraordinary  spec- 
tacle would  I  have  asked  a  single  question  of 
any  Vendomese  gossip.  Straying  about  there, 
I  composed  delightful  romances,  I  abandoned 
myself  to  little  orgies  of  melancholy  which 
enchanted  me. 

If  I  had  learned  the  cause  of  that  perhaps 
most  commonplace  neglect,  I  should  have 
lost  the  unspoken  poesy  with  which  I  intox- 
icated myself.  To  me  that  spot  represented 

«  [161] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  most  diverse  images  of  human  life  dark- 
ened by  its  misfortunes  ;  now  it  was  the 
air  of  the  cloister,  minus  the  monks;  again, 
the  perfect  peace  of  the  cemetery,  minus  the 
dead  speaking  their  epitaphic  language;  to- 
day, the  house  of  the  leper;  to-morrow,  that 
of  the  Fates;  but  it  was,  above  all,  the  image 
of  the  province,  with  its  meditation,  with  its 
hour-glass  life.  I  have  often  wept  there,  but 
never  laughed.  More  than  once  I  have  felt 
an  involuntary  terror,  as  I  heard  above  my 
head  the  low  rustling  made  by  the  wings  of 
some  hurrying  dove.  The  ground  is  damp; 
you  must  beware  of  lizards,  snakes,  and  toads, 
which  wander  about  there  with  the  fearless  lib- 
erty of  nature;  above  all,  you  must  not  fear 
the  cold,  for,  after  a  few  seconds,  you  feel  an 
icy  cloak  resting  upon  your  shoulders,  like  the 
hand  of  the  Commendator  on  the  neck  of 
Don  Juan.  One  evening  I  had  shuddered 
there;  the  wind  had  twisted  an  old  rusty 
weathervane,  whose  shrieks  resembled  a 
groan  uttered  by  the  house  at  the  moment 

[162] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


that  I  was  finishing  a  rather  dismal  melo- 
drama, by  which  I  sought  to  explain  to  myself 
that  species  of  monumental  grief.  I  returned 
to  my  inn,  beset  by  sombre  thoughts.  When 
I  had  supped,  my  hostess  entered  my  room 
with  a  mysterious  air,  and  said  to  me: 

"Here  is  Monsieur  Regnault,  monsieur." 

"Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?" 

"  What!  Monsieur  does  n't  know  Monsieur 
Regnault?  That 's  funny!  "  she  said,  as  she 
left  the  room. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  tall,  slender  man,  dressed 
in  black,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  who  en- 
tered the  room  like  a  ram  ready  to  rush  at  his 
rival,  disclosing  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small, 
pointed  head,  and  a  pale  face,  not  unlike  a 
glass  of  dirty  water.  You  would  have  said 
that  he  was  the  doorkeeper  of  some  minister. 
He  wore  an  old  coat,  threadbare  at  the  seams; 
but  he  had  a  diamond  in  his  shirt-frill  and 
gold  rings  in  his  ears. 

"To  whom  have  I  the  honour  of  speaking, 
monsieur?"  I  asked  him. 
flea] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


He  took  a  chair,  seated  himself  in  front  of 
my  fire,  placed  his  hat  on  my  table,  and  re- 
plied, rubbing  his  hands: 

'*  Ah!  it 's  very  cold!  I  am  Monsieur  Reg- 
nault,  monsieur." 

I  bowed,  saying  to  myself: 

"//  Bondocani!    Look  for  him ! " 

"I  am  the  notary  at  Vendome,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  monsieur,"  I 
exclaimed,  "but  I  am  not  ready  to  make  my 
will,  for  reasons  best  known  to  myself." 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  rejoined,  raising  his 
hand  as  if  to  impose  silence  upon  me.  "I 
beg  pardon,  monsieur,  I  beg  pardon!  I  have 
heard  that  you  go  to  walk  sometimes  in  the 
garden  of  La  Grande  Breteche." 

"Yes,  monsieur! " 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said,  repeating  his  ges- 
ture; "that  practice  constitutes  a  downright 
trespass.  I  have  come,  monsieur,  in  the  name 
and  as  executor  of  the  late  Madame  Coun- 
tess de  Merret,  to  beg  you  to  discontinue 

[164] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


your  visits.  Just  a  minute!  I'm  not  a  Turk, 
and  I  don't  propose  to  charge  you  with  a 
crime.  Besides,  it  may  well  be  that  you  are 
not  aware  of  the  circumstances  which  compel 
me  to  allow  the  finest  mansion  in  Vendome 
to  fall  to  ruin.  However,  monsieur,  you  seem 
to  be  a  man  of  education,  and  you  must  know 
that  the  law  forbids  entrance  upon  an  enclosed 
estate  under  severe  penalties.  A  hedge  is  as 
good  as  a  wall.  But  the  present  condition  of 
the  house  may  serve  as  an  excuse  for  your 
curiosity.  I  would  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
allow  you  to  go  and  come  as  you  please  in 
that  house;  but,  as  it  is  my  duty  to  carry  out 
the  will  of  the  testatrix,  I  have  the  honour, 
monsieur,  to  request  you  not  to  go  into  that 
garden  again.  Even  I  myself,  monsieur,  since 
the  opening  of  the  will,  have  never  set  foot 
inside  that  house,  which,  as  I  have  had  the 
honour  to  tell  you,  is  a  part  of  the  estate  of 
Madame  de  Merret.  We  simply  reported  the 
number  of  doors  and  windows,  in  order  to 
fix  the  amount  of  the  impost  which  I  pay 

H66] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


annually  from  the  fund  set  aside  for  that  pur- 
pose by  the  late  countess.  Ah!  her  will  made 
a  great  deal  of  talk  in  Vendome,  monsieur." 

At  that,  he  stopped  to  blow  his  nose,  the 
excellent  man.  I  respected  his  loquacity,  un- 
derstanding perfectly  that  the  administration 
of  Madame  de  Merret's  property  was  the  im- 
portant event  of  his  life  —  his  reputation,  his 
glory,  his  Restoration.  I  must  needs  bid  adieu 
to  my  pleasant  reveries,  to  my  romances;  so 
that  I  was  not  inclined  to  scorn  the  pleasure 
of  learning  the  truth  from  an  official  source. 

"Would  it  be  indiscreet,  monsieur,"  I  asked 
him,  "to  ask  you  the  reason  of  this  extraor- 
dinary state  of  affairs  ?  " 

At  that  question  an  expression  which  be- 
trayed all  the  pleasure  that  a  man  feels  who 
is  accustomed  to  ride  a  hobby  passed  over 
the  notary's  face.  He  pulled  up  his  shirt  col- 
lar with  a  self-satisfied  air,  produced  his  snuff- 
box, opened  it,  offered  it  to  me,  and  at  my 
refusal,  took  a  famous  pinch  himself.  He  was 
happy;  the  man  who  has  no  hobby  has  no 

[166] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


idea  of  the  satisfaction  that  can  be  derived 
from  life.  A  hobby  is  the  precise  mean  be- 
tween passion  and  monomania.  At  that  mo- 
ment I  understood  the  witty  expression  of 
Sterne  in  all  its  extent,  and  I  had  a  perfect  con- 
ception of  the  joy  with  which  Uncle  Toby,  with 
Trim's  assistance,  bestrode  his  battle-horse. 
"Monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  "I 
was  chief  clerk  to  Master  Roguin  of  Paris. 
An  excellent  office,  of  which  you  may  have 
heard  ?  No  ?  Why,  it  was  made  famous  by 
a  disastrous  failure.  Not  having  sufficient 
money  to  practise  in  Paris,  at  the  price  to 
which  offices  had  risen  in  1816,  I  came  here 
and  bought  the  office  of  my  predecessor.  I 
had  relatives  in  Vendome,  among  others  a 
very  rich  aunt,  who  gave  me  her  daughter  in 
marriage.  Monsieur,"  he  continued  after  a 
brief  pause,  ' '  three  months  after  being  licensed 
by  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  I  was  sent  for  one 
evening,  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed  (I  was 
not  then  married),  by  Madame  Countess  de 
Merret,  to  come  to  her  Chateau  de  Merret. 


Honore  de  Balzac 


Her  maid,  an  excellent  girl  who  works  in  this 
inn  to-day,  was  at  my  door  with  madame 
countess's  carriage.  But,  just  a  minute  !  I 
must  tell  you,  monsieur,  that  Monsieur 
Count  de  Merret  had  gone  to  Paris  to  die, 
two  months  before  I  came  here.  He  died 
miserably  there,  abandoning  himself  to  ex- 
cesses of  all  sorts.  You  understand  ? — On 
the  day  of  his  departure  madame  countess 
had  left  La  Grande  Breteche  and  had  disman- 
tled it.  Indeed,  some  people  declare  that  she 
burned  the  furniture  and  hangings,  and  all 
chattels  whatsoever  now  contained  in  the  es- 
tate leased  by  the  said  —  What  on  earth  am  I 
saying  ?  I  beg  pardon,  I  thought  I  was  dic- 
tating a  lease.  —  That  she  burned  them,"  he 
continued,  "in  the  fields  at  Merret.  Have 
you  been  to  Merret,  monsieur  ?  No  ? "  he 
said,  answering  his  own  question.  "Ah! 
that  is  a  lovely  spot!  for  about  three  months," 
he  continued,  after  a  slight  shake  of  the  head, 
"monsieur  count  and  madame  countess  led  a 
strange  life. 

[168) 


La  Grande  Breteche 


"They  received  no  guests;  madame  lived 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  monsieur  on  the 
first  floor.  When  madame  countess  was  left 
alone,  she  never  appeared  except  at  church. 
Later,  in  her  own  house,  at  her  chateau,  she 
refused  to  see  the  friends  who  came  to  see  her. 
She  was  already  much  changed  when  she  left 
La  Grande  Breteche  to  go  to  Merret.  The  dear 
woman  —  I  say  'dear,' because  this  diamond 
came  from  her;  but  I  actually  only  saw  her 
once, — the  excellent  lady,  then,  was  very  ill; 
she  had  doubtless. despaired  of  her  health,  for 
she  died  without  calling  a  doctor;  so  that 
many  of  our  ladies  thought  that  she  was  not 
in  full  possession  of  her  wits.  My  curiosity 
was  therefore  strangely  aroused,  monsieur, 
when  I  learned  that  Madame  de  Merret  needed 
my  services.  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  took 
an  interest  in  that  story.  That  same  evening, 
although  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew  that 
I  had  gone  to  Merret.  The  maid  answered 
rather  vaguely  the  questions  that  I  asked  her 
on  the  road ;  she  told  me,  however,  that  her 

[169] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


mistress  had  received  the  sacrament  from  the 
cure  of  Merret  during  the  day,  and  that  she 
did  not  seem  likely  to  live  through  the  night. 
"  I  reached  the  chateau  about  eleven  o'clock ; 
I  mounted  the  main  staircase.  After  passing 
through  divers  large  rooms,  high  and  dark, 
and  as  cold  and  damp  as  the  devil,  I  reached 
the  state  bedchamber  where  the  countess  was. 
According  to  the  reports  that  were  current 
concerning  that  lady  —  I  should  never  end, 
monsieur,  if  I  should  repeat  all  the  stories  that 
are  told  about  her — I  had  thought  of  her  as  a 
coquette.  But,  if  you  please,  I  had  much  diffi- 
culty in  finding  her  in  the  huge  bed  in  which 
she  lay.  To  be  sure,  to  light  that  enormous 
wainscoted  chamber  of  the  old  regime,  where 
everything  was  so  covered  with  dust  that  it 
made  one  sneeze  simply  to  look  at  it,  she  had 
only  one  of  those  old-fashioned  Argand  lamps. 
Ah!  but  you  have  never  been  to  Merret. 
Well,  monsieur,  the  bed  is  one  of  those  beds 
of  the  olden  time,  with  a  high  canopy  of 
flowered  material.  A  small  night-table  stood 

[170] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


beside  the  bed,  and  I  saw  upon  it  a  copy  of 
the  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ,  which,  by  the 
by,  I  bought  for  my  wife,  as  well  as  the  lamp. 
There  was  also  a  large  couch  for  the  attendant, 
and  two  chairs.  Not  a  spark  of  fire.  That 
was  all  the  furniture.  It  would  n't  have  filled 
ten  lines  in  an  inventory. 

' '  Oh !  my  dear  monsieur,  if  you  had  seen,  as 
I  then  saw  it,  that  huge  room  hung  with  dark 
tapestry,  you  would  have  imagined  yourself 
transported  into  a  genuine  scene  from  a  novel. 
It  was  icy  cold;  and,  more  than  that,  absol- 
utely funereal,"  he  added,  raising  his  arm  with 
a  theatrical  gesture,  and  pausing  for  a  moment. 
"By  looking  hard  and  walking  close  to  the 
bed,  I  succeeded  in  discovering  Madame  de 
Merret,  thanks  to  the  lamp,  the  light  of  which 
shone  upon  the  pillow.  Her  face  was  as  yel- 
low as  wax,  and  resembled  two  clasped 
hands.  She  wore  a  lace  cap,  which  revealed 
her  lovely  hair,  as  white  as  snow.  She  was 
sitting  up,  and  seemed  to  retain  that  position 
with  much  difficulty.  Her  great  black  eyes, 

[171) 


Honore  de  Balzac 


dulled  by  fever  no  doubt,  and  already  almost 
lifeless,  hardly  moved  beneath  the  bones  which 
the  eyebrows  cover — these,"  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  arch  over  his  eyes. — "  Her  brow  was 
moist.  Her  fleshless  hands  resembled  bones 
covered  with  tightly-drawn  skin;  her  veins 
and  muscles  could  be  seen  perfectly.  She 
must  have  been  very  beautiful;  but  at  that 
moment  I  was  seized  with  an  indefinable  feel- 
ing at  her  aspect.  Never  before,  according  to 
those  who  laid  her  out,  had  a  living  creature 
attained  such  thinness  without  dying.  In  short, 
she  was  horrible  to  look  at;  disease  had  so 
wasted  that  woman  that  she  was  nothing 
more  than  a  phantom.  Her  pale  violet  lips 
seemed  not  to  move  when  she  spoke  to  me. 
Although  my  profession  had  familiarised  me 
with  such  spectacles,  by  taking  me  some- 
times to  the  pillows  of  dying  persons  to  take 
down  their  last  wishes,  I  confess  that  the 
families  in  tears  and  despair  whom  I  had  seen 
were  as  nothing  beside  that  solitary,  silent 
woman  in  that  enormous  chateau. 

[172] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


"I  did  not  hear  the  slightest  sound,  I  could 
not  detect  the  movement  which  the  breathing 
of  the  sick  woman  should  have  imparted  to 
the  sheets  that  covered  her;  and  I  stood  quite 
still,  gazing  at  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  there  now.  At  last 
her  great  eyes  moved,  she  tried  to  raise  her 
right  hand,  which  fell  back  upon  the  bed,  and 
these  words  came  from  her  mouth  like  a 
breath,  for  her  voice  had  already  ceased  to  be 
a  voice :  '  I  have  been  awaiting  you  with  much 
impatience.' — Her  cheeks  suddenly  flushed. 
It  was  a  great  effort  for  her  to  speak,  mon- 
sieur.— 'Madame,'  I  said.  She  motioned  to 
me  to  be  silent.  At  that  moment  the  old 
nurse  rose  and  whispered  in  my  ear:  'Don't 
speak;  madame  countess  cannot  bear  to  hear 
the  slightest  sound,  and  what  you  said  might 
excite  her.'  —  I  sat  down.  A  few  moments 
later,  Madame  de  Merret  collected  all  her  re- 
maining strength,  to  move  her  right  arm 
and  thrust  it,  not  without  infinite  difficulty, 
beneath  her  bolster;  she  paused  for  just  a 


Honore  de  Balzac 


moment;  then  she  made  a  last  effort  to  with- 
draw her  hand,  and  when  she  finally  produced 
a  sealed  paper,  drops  of  sweat  fell  from  her 
brow. — 'I  place  my  will  in  your  hands,'  she 
said.  '  O  mon  Dieu,  oh ! '  That  was  all. 
She  grasped  a  crucifix  that  lay  on  her  bed, 
hastily  put  it  to  her  lips,  and  died.  The  ex- 
pression of  her  staring  eyes  makes  me  shudder 
even  now,  when  I  think  of  it.  She  must 
have  suffered  terribly !  There  was  a  gleam  of 
joy  in  her  last  glance,  a  sentiment  which  re- 
mained in  her  dead  eyes. 

"I  carried  the  will  away;  and  when  it  was 
opened,  I  found  that  Madame  de  Merret  had 
appointed  me  her  executor.  She  left  all  her 
property  to  the  hospital  at  Vendome  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  individual  legacies.  But 
these  were  her  provisions  with  respect  to  La 
Grande  Breteche:  She  directed  me  to  leave 
her  house,  for  fifty  years  from  the  day  of  her 
death,  in  the  same  condition  as  at  the  moment 
that  she  died;  forbidding  any  person  whatso- 
ever to  enter  the  rooms,  forbidding  the  slight- 

[174] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


est  repairs  to  be  made,  and  even  setting  aside 
a  sum  in  order  to  hire  keepers,  if  it  should  be 
found  necessary,  to  assure  the  literal  execu- 
tion of  her  purpose.  At  the  expiration  of  that 
period,  if  the  desire  of  the  testatrix  has  been 
carried  out,  the  house  is  to  belong  to  my  heirs, 
for  monsieur  knows  that  notaries  cannot  ac- 
cept legacies.  If  not,  La  Grande  Breteche  is 
to  revert  to  whoever  is  entitled  to  it,  but  with 
the  obligation  to  comply  with  the  conditions 
set  forth  in  a  codicil  attached  to  the  will,  which 
is  not  to  be  opened  until  the  expiration  of  the 
said  fifty  years.  The  will  was  not  attacked ; 
and  so " 

At  that,  without  finishing  his  sentence,  the 
elongated  notary  glanced  at  me  with  a  tri- 
umphant air,  and  I  made  him  altogether  happy 
by  addressing  a  few  compliments  to  him. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  "you  have  made  a  pro- 
found impression  upon  me,  so  that  1  think  I 
see  that  dying  woman,  paler  than  her  sheets; 
her  gleaming  eyes  terrify  me;  and  I  shall 
dream  of  her  to-night.  But  you  must  have 

[175] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


formed  some  conjecture  concerning  the  pro- 
visions of  that  extraordinary  will." 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  with  a  comical  re- 
serve, "I  never  allow  myself  to  judge  the 
conduct  of  those  persons  who  honour  me  by 
giving  me  a  diamond." 

I  soon  loosened  the  tongue  of  the  scrupu- 
lous Vendomese  notary,  who  communicated 
to  me,  not  without  long  digressions,  observa- 
tions due  to  the  profound  politicians  of  both 
sexes  whose  decrees  are  law  in  Vendome. 
But  those  observations  were  so  contradictory 
and  so  diffuse  that  I  almost  fell  asleep,  despite 
the  interest  I  took  in  that  authentic  narrative. 
The  dull  and  monotonous  tone  of  the  notary, 
who  was  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  listen  to 
himself,  and  to  force  his  clients  and  his  fellow 
citizens  to  listen  to  him,  triumphed  over  my 
curiosity. 

"Aha!  many  people,  monsieur,"  he  said  to 
me  on  the  landing,  "would  like  to  live  forty- 
five  years  more;  but  just  a  minute!  "  and  with 

a  sly  expression    he   placed   his   right  fore- 
tire] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


finger  on  his  nose,  as  if  he  would  have 
said:  "Just  mark  what  I  say." — "But  to  do 
that,  to  do  that,"  he  added,  "a  man  must  be 
less  than  sixty." 

I  closed  my  door,  having  been  roused  from 
my  apathy  by  this  last  shaft,  which  the  notary 
considered  very  clever;  then  I  seated  myself  in 
my  easy-chair,  placing  my  feet  on  the  andirons. 
I  was  soon  absorbed  in  an  imaginary  romance 
d  la  Radcliffe,  based  upon  the  judicial  observa- 
tions of  Monsieur  Regnault,  when  my  door, 
under  the  skillful  manipulation  of  a  woman's 
hand,  turned  upon  its  hinges.  My  hostess 
appeared,  a  stout,  red-faced  woman,  of  excel- 
lent disposition,  who  had  missed  her  vocation; 
she  was  a  Fleming,  who  should  have  been 
born  in  a  picture  by  Teniers. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "no  doubt 
Monsieur  Regnault  has  given  you  his  story  of 
La  Grande  Breteche?" 

"Yes,  Mother  Lepas." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

I  repeated  in  a  few  words  the  chilling  and 


Honore  de  Balzac 


gloomy  story  of  Madame  de  Merret.  At  each 
sentence  my  hostess  thrust  out  her  neck, 
gazing  at  me  with  the  true  innkeeper's  per- 
spicacity—  a  sort  of  happy  medium  between 
the  instinct  of  the  detective,  the  cunning  of 
the  spy,  and  the  craft  of  the  trader. 

"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  added,  as  I 
concluded,  "you  evidently  know  more,  eh? 
If  not,  why  should  you  have  come  up  here  ?" 

•'Oh!  on  an  honest  woman's  word,  as  true 
as  my  name  's  Lepas " 

"Don't  swear;  your  eyes  are  big  with  a 
secret.  You  knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.  What 
sort  of  a  man  was  he?" 

"Blessxmy  soul!  Monsieur  de  Merret  was 
a  fine  man,  whom  you  never  could  see  the 
whole  of,  he  was  so  long;  an  excellent  gentle- 
man, who  came  here  from  Picardy,  and  who 
had  his  brains  very  near  his  cap,  as  we  say 
here.  He  paid  cash  for  everything,  in  order 
not  to  have  trouble  with  anybody.  You  see, 
he  was  lively.  We  women  all  found  him 
very  agreeable." 


La  Grande  Breteche 


"  Because  he  was  lively  ?  "  I  asked. 

"That  may  be,"  she  said.  "You  know, 
monsieur,  that  a  man  must  have  had  some- 
thing in  front  of  him,  as  they  say,  to  marry 
Madame  de  Merret,  who,  without  saying  any- 
thing against  the  others,  was  the  loveliest  and 
richest  woman  in  the  whole  province.  She 
had  about  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
The  whole  town  went  to  her  wedding.  The 
bride  was  dainty  and  attractive,  a  real  jewel 
of  a  woman.  Ah!  they  made  a  handsome 
couple  at  that  time  !  " 

"Did  they  live  happily  together?" 

"Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  yes  and  no,  so  far  as 
any  one  could  tell;  for,  as  you  can  imagine, 
we  folks  did  n't  live  on  intimate  terms  with 
them.  Madame  de  Merret  was  a  kind-hearted 
woman,  very  pleasant,  who  had  to  suffer 
sometimes  perhaps  from  her  husband's  quick 
temper;  but  although  he  was  a  bit  proud,  we 
liked  him.  You  see,  it  was  his  business  to  be 
like  that;  when  a  man  is  noble,  you  know — 

"  However,   some   catastrophe  must   have 

[179] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


happened,  to  make  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Merret  separate  so  violently  ?  " 

"I  didn't  say  there  was  any  catastrophe, 
monsieur.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Good!  I  am  sure  now  that  you  know 
all  about  it." 

"Well,  monsieur,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know. 
When  I  saw  Monsieur  Regnault  come  up  to 
your  room,  I  had  an  idea  that  he  would  talk 
to  you  about  Madame  de  Merret  in  connec- 
tion with  La  Grande  Breteche.  That  gave 
me  the  idea  of  consulting  with  monsieur, 
who  seems  to  me  a  man  of  good  judgment 
and  incapable  of  playing  false  with  a  poor 
woman  like  me,  who  never  did  anybody  any 
harm,  and  yet  who  's  troubled  by  her  con- 
science. Up  to  this  time  I  've  never  dared  to 
speak  out  to  the  people  of  this  neighbour- 
hood, for  they  're  all  sharp-tongued  gossips. 
And  then,  monsieur,  I  've  never  had  a  guest 
stay  in  my  inn  so  long  as  you  have,  and  to 
whom  I  could  tell  the  story  of  the  fifteen 
thousand  francs." 

[1801 


La  Grande  Breteche 


"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  said,  arresting 
the  flood  of  her  words,  "if  your  confidence  is 
likely  to  compromise  me,  I  would  n't  be  bur- 
dened with  it  for  a  moment,  for  anything  in 
the  world." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  interrupting 
me;  "you  shall  see." 

This  eagerness  on  her  part  made  me  think 
that  I  was  not  the  only  one  to  whom  my 
worthy  hostess  had  communicated  the  secret, 
of  which  I  dreaded  to  be  the  only  confidant, 
and  I  listened. 

"Monsieur,"  she  began,  "when  the  Em- 
peror sent  Spanish  or  other  prisoners  of  war 
here,  I  had  to  board,  at  the  expense  of  the 
government,  a  young  Spaniard  who  was 
sent  to  Vend6me  on  parole.  In  spite  of  the 
parole,  he  went  every  day  to  show  him- 
self to  the  subprefect.  He  was  a  Spanish 
grandee!  Nothing  less!  He  had  a  name  in 
os  and  dia,  something  like  Bagos  de  Feredia. 
I  have  his  name  written  on  my  register;  you 
can  read  it  if  you  wish.  He  was  a  fine  young 

[181] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


man  for  a  Spaniard,  who  they  say  are  all 
ugly.  He  was  only  five  feet  two  or  three 
inches  tall,  but  he  was  well-built;  he  had 
little  hands,  which  he  took  care  of — oh!  you 
should  have  seen;  he  had  as  many  brushes 
for  his  hands  as  a  woman  has  for  all  purposes! 
He  had  long,  black  hair,  a  flashing  eye,  and 
rather  a  copper-coloured  skin,  which  I  liked 
all  the  same.  He  wore  such  fine  linen  as  I 
never  saw  before  on  any  one,  although  I  have 
entertained  princesses,  and  among  others 
General  Bertrand,  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
d'Abrantes,  Monsieur  Decazes,  and  the  King 
of  Spain.  He  didn't  eat  much;  but  he  had 
polite  and  pleasant  manners,  so  that  I  could  n't 
be  angry  with  him  for  it.  Oh!  I  was  very 
fond  of  him,  although  he  did  n't  say  four 
words  a  day,  and  it  was  impossible  to  have 
the  slightest  conversation  with  him;  if  any 
one  spoke  to  him,  he  would  n't  answer;  it 
was  a  fad,  a  mania  that  they  all  have,  so  they 
tell  me.  He  read  his  breviary  like  a  priest, 
hj  went  to  mass  and  to  all  the  services  regu- 

[182] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


larly.  Where  did  he  sit?  We  noticed  that 
later:  about  two  steps  from  Madame  de  Mer- 
ret's  private  chapel.  As  he  took  his  seat 
there  the  first  time  that  he  came  to  the 
church,  nobody  imagined  that  there  was  any 
design  in  it.  Besides,  he  never  took  his  face 
off  his  prayer-book,  the  poor  young  man! 
In  the  evening,  monsieur,  he  used  to  walk  on 
the  mountain,  among  the  ruins  of  the  chateau. 
That  was  the  poor  man's  only  amusement; 
he  was  reminded  of  his  own  country  there. 
They  say  that  there  's  nothing  but  mountains 
in  Spain. 

"  Very  soon  after  he  came  here  he  began  to 
stay  out  late.  I  was  anxious  when  he  did  n't 
come  home  till  midnight;  but  we  all  got  used 
to  his  whim;  he  would  take  the  key  of  the 
door,  and  we  would  n't  wait  for  him.  He 
lived  in  a  house  that  we  have  on  Rue  de 
Casernes.  Then  one  of  our  stablemen  told 
us  that  one  night,  when  he  took  the  horses  to 
drink,  he  thought  he  saw  the  Spanish  grandee 
swimming  far  out  in  the  river,  like  a  real  fish. 

1183] 


Honor6  de  Balzac 


When  he  came  back,  I  told  him  to  be  careful 
of  the  eel-grass;  he  seemed  vexed  that  he  had 
been  seen  in  the  water.  At  last,  monsieur,  one 
day,  or  rather  one  morning,  we  did  n't  find  him 
in  his  room;  he  had  n't  come  home.  By  hunt- 
ing carefully  everywhere,  I  found  a  writing 
in  his  table  drawer,  where  there  were  fifty  of 
the  Spanish  gold-pieces  which  they  call  portu- 
gaises,  and  which  were  worth  about  five 
thousand  francs  ;  and  then  there  was  ten 
thousand  francs'  worth  of  diamonds  in  a  little 
sealed  box.  His  writing  said  that  in  case  he 
did  n't  return,  he  left  us  this  money  and  his 
diamonds,  on  condition  that  we  would  found 
masses  to  thank  God  for  his  escape  and  his 
salvation.  In  those  days  I  still  had  my  man, 
who  went  out  to  look  for  him.  And  here  's 
the  funny  part  of  the  story:  he  brought  back 
the  Spaniard's  clothes,  which  he  found  under 
a  big  stone  in  a  sort  of  shed  by  the  river,  on 
the  chateau  side,  almost  opposite  La  Grande 
Breteche. 
My  husband  went  there  so  early  that  no 

[184] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


one  saw  him;  he  burned  the  clothes  after 
reading  the  letter,  and  we  declared,  according 
to  Count  Feredia's  wish,  that  he  had  escaped. 
The  subprefect  set  all  the  gendarmerie  on 
his  track,  but,  bless  my  soul!  they  never 
caught  him.  Lepas  believed  that  the  Spaniard 
had  drowned  himself.  For  my  part,  mon- 
sieur, I  don't  think  it;  1  think  rather  that  he 
was  mixed  up  in  Madame  de  Merret's  busi- 
ness, seeing  that  Rosalie  told  me  that  the 
crucifix  that  her  mistress  thought  so  much  of 
that  she  had  it  buried  with  her  was  made 
of  ebony  and  silver;  now,  in  the  early  part  of 
his  stay  here,  Monsieur  Feredia  had  one  of 
silver  and  ebony,  which  I  did  n't  see  after- 
wards.— Tell  me  now,  monsieur,  is  n't  it  true 
that  I  need  n't  have  any  remorse  about  the 
Spaniard's  fifteen  thousand  francs,  and  that 
they  are  fairly  mine  ?  "  ':  ;* 

"  Certainly.  But  did  you  never  try  to  ques- 
tion Rosalie  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"Oh!  yes,  indeed,  monsieur.  But  would 
you  believe  it  ?  That  girl  is  like  a  ^  all.  She 

[185] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


knows    something,    but   it 's    impossible    to 
make  her  talk." 

After  conversing  a  moment  more  with  me, 
my  hostess  left  me  beset  by  undefined  and 
dismal  thoughts,  by  a  romantic  sort  of  curi- 
osity, a  religious  terror  not  unlike  the  intense 
emotion  that  seizes  us  when  we  enter  a  dark 
church  at  night  and  see  a  dim  light  in  the 
distance  under  the  lofty  arches;  a  vague  fig- 
ure gliding  along,  or  the  rustling  of  a  dress  or 
a  surplice;  it  makes  us  shudder.  La  Grande 
Breteche  and  its  tall  weeds,  its  condemned 
windows,  its  rusty  ironwork,  its  closed  doors, 
its  deserted  rooms,  suddenly  appeared  be- 
fore me  in  fantastic  guise.  I  tried  to  pene- 
trate that  mysterious  abode,  seeking  there  the 
kernel  of  that  sombre  story,  of  that  drama 
which  had  caused  the  death  of  three  persons. 
In  my  eyes  Rosalie  was  the  most  interesting 
person  in  Vendome.  As  I  scrutinised  her,  I 
detected  traces  of  some  inmost  thought,  de- 
spite the  robust  health  that  shone  upon  her 
plump  cheeks.  There  was  in  her  some  seed 

[186] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


of  remorse  or  of  hope ;  her  manner  announced 
a  secret,  as  does  that  of  the  devotee  who  prays 
with  excessive  fervour,  or  that  of  the  infanti- 
cide, who  constantly  hears  her  child's  last  cry. 
However,  her  attitude  was  artless  and  natural, 
her  stupid  smile  had  no  trace  of  criminality, 
and  you  would  have  voted  her  innocent  simply 
by  glancing  at  the  large  handkerchief  with 
red  and  blue  squares  which  covered  her  vig- 
orous bust,  confined  by  a  gown  with  white 
and  violet  stripes. 

"No,"  I  thought,  "I  won't  leave  Vendome 
without  learning  the  whole  story  of  La  Grande 
Breteche.  To  obtain  my  end,  I  will  become 
Rosalie's  friend,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"  Rosalie?"  I  said  one  evening. 

"  What  is  it,  monsieur  ?  " 

' '  You  are  not  married  ?  " 

She  started  slightly. 

Oh  !  1  sha'  n't  lack  men  when  I  take  a 
fancy  to  be  unhappy  ! "  she  said  with  a  laugh. 

She  speedily  overcame  her  inward  emotion; 
for  all  women,  from  the  great  lady  down  to 

1187] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  servant  at  an  inn,  have  a  self-possession 
which  is  peculiar  to  them.  v 

"You  are  fresh  and  appetising  enough  not 
to  lack  suitors.  But  tell  me,  Rosalie,  why 
did  you  go  to  work  in  an  inn  when  you  left 
Madame  de  Merret's  ?  Did  n't  she  leave  you 
some  money  ?  " 

"Oh  yes!  but  my  place  is  the  best  in 
Vendome,  monsieur." 

This  reply  was  one  of  those  which  judges 
and  lawyers  call  dilatory.  Rosalie  seemed  to 
me  to  occupy  in  that  romantic  story  the  po- 
sition of  the  square  in  the  middle  of  the  chess- 
board ;  she  was  at  the  very  centre  of  interest 
and  of  truth;  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  tied 
up  in  the  clew;  it  was  no  longer  an  ordinary 
case  of  attempting  seduction;  there  was  in 
that  girl  the  last  chapter  of  a  romance;  and  so, 
from  that  moment,  Rosalie  became  the  object 
of  my  attentions.  By  dint  of  studying  the 
girl,  I  observed  in  her,  as  in  all  women  to 
whom  we  devote  all  our  thoughts,  a  multitude 
of  good  qualities:  she  was  neat  and  clean,  and 

[188] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


she  was  fine-looking — that  goes  without  say- 
ing; she  had  also  all  the  attractions  which  our 
desire  imparts  to  women,  in  whatever  station 
of  life  they  may  be.  A  fortnight  after  the 
notary's  visit,  I  said  to  Rosalie  one  evening,  or 
rather  one  morning,  for  it  was  very  early : 

"  Tell  me  all  that  you  know  about  Madame 
de  Merret." 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  that,  Monsieur  Horace!  " 
she  replied  in  alarm. 

Her  pretty  face  darkened,  her  bright  colour 
vanished,  and  her  eyes  lost  their  humid,  inno- 
cent light.  But  I  insisted. 

"Well,"  she  rejoined,  "  as  you  insist  upon 
it,  I  will  tell  you;  but  keep  my  secret  !  " 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  girl;  I  will 
keep  all  your  secrets  with  the  probity  of  a 
thief,  and  that  is  the  most  loyal  probity  that 
exists." 

"If  it 's  all  the  same  to  you,"  she  said,  "  I 
prefer  that  it  should  be  with  your  own." 

Thereupon  she  arranged  her  neckerchief, 
and  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  story-teller;  for 

[189] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


there  certainly  is  an  attitude  of  trust  and  se- 
curity essential  to  the  telling  of  a  story.  The 
best  stories  are  told  at  a  certain  hour,  and  at 
the  table,  as  we  all  are  now.  No  one  ever  told 
a  story  well  while  standing,  or  fasting.  But 
if  it  were  necessary  to  reproduce  faithfully 
Rosalie's  diffuse  eloquence,  a  whole  volume 
would  hardly  suffice.  Now,  as  the  event 
of  which  she  gave  me  a  confused  account 
occupied,  between  the  loquacity  of  the  notary 
and  that  of  Madame  Lepas,  the  exact  position 
of  the  mean  terms  of  an  arithmetical  propor- 
tion between  the  two  extremes,  it  is  only 
necessary  for  me  to  repeat  it  to  you  in  a  few 
words.  Therefore  I  abridge. 

The  room  which  Madame  de  Merret  occu- 
pied at  La  Grande  Breteche  was  on  the  ground 
floor.  A  small  closet,  about  four  feet  deep, 
in  the  wall,  served  as  her  wardrobe.  Three 
months  before  the  evening,  the  incidents  of 
which  I  am  about  to  narrate,  Madame  de 
Merret  had  been  so  seriously  indisposed  that 
her  husband  left  her  alone  in  her  room  and 

[190] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


slept  in  a  room  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of 
those  chances  which  it  is  impossible  to  fore- 
see, he  returned  »home,  on  the  evening  in 
question,  two  hours  later  than  usual,  from  the 
club  to  which  he  was  accustomed  to  go  to  read 
the  newspapers  and  to  talk  politics  with  the 
people  of  the  neighbourhood.  His  wife  sup- 
posed that  he  had  come  home,  and  had  gone  to 
bed  and  to  sleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France 
had  given  rise  to  a  lively  discussion;  the  game 
of  billiards  had  been  very  close,  and  he  had 
lost  forty  francs,  an  enormous  sum  at  Ven- 
dome,  where  everybody  hoards  money,  and 
where  manners  are  confined  within  the  limits 
of  a  modesty  worthy  of  all  praise,  which  per- 
haps is  the  source  of  a  true  happiness  of 
which  no  Parisian  has  a  suspicion. 

For  some  time  past,  Monsieur  de  Merret  had 
contented  himself  with  asking  Rosalie  if  his 
wife  were  in  bed;  at  the  girl's  reply,  always  in 
the  affirmative,  he  went  immediately  to  his  own 
room  with  the  readiness  born  of  habit  and  con- 
fidence. But  on  returning  home  that  evening, 

[191] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  to  Madame  de 
Merret's  room,  to  tell  her  of  his  misadven- 
ture and  perhaps  also  to  console  himself  for  it. 
During  dinner  he  had  remarked  that  Madame 
de  Merret  was  very  coquettishly  dressed;  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home  from  the 
club,  that  his  wife  was  no  longer  ill,  that  her 
convalescence  had  improved  her;  but  he  per- 
ceived it,  as  husbands  notice  everything,  a  little 
late.  Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that 
moment  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  watching  the 
cook  and  the  coachman  play  a  difficult  hand 
of  brisque,  Monsieur  de  Merret  went  to  his 
wife's  room,  lighted  by  his  lantern,  which  he 
had  placed  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairs.  His 
footstep,  easily  recognised,  resounded  under 
the  arches  of  the  corridor.  At  the  instant  that 
he  turned  the  knob  of  his  wife's  door,  he  fan- 
cied that  he  heard  the  door  of  the  closet  that 
I  have  mentioned  close;  but  when  he  en- 
tered, Madame  de  Merret  was  alone,  standing 
in  front  of  the  hearth.  The  husband  naively 

roncluded   that   Rosalie   was   in  the   closet; 
ri92i 


La  Grande  Breteche 


however,  a  suspicion,  that  rang  in  his  ears 
like  the  striking  of  a  clock,  made  him  distrust- 
ful; he  looked  at  his  wife  and  detected  in  her 
eyes  something  indefinable  of  confusion  and 
dismay. 

"  You  come  home  very  late,"  she  said. 

That  voice,  usually  so  pure  and  so  gracious, 
seemed  to  him  slightly  changed.  He  made  no 
reply,  but  at  that  moment  Rosalie  entered  the 
room.  That  was  a  thunderclap  to  him.  He 
walked  about  the  room,  from  one  window  to 
another,  with  a  uniform  step  and  with  folded 
arms. 

"  Have  you  learned  anything  distressing,  or 
are  you  ill  ? "  his  wife  timidly  asked  him, 
while  Rosalie  undressed  her. 

He  made  no  reply. 

"You  may  go,  "said  Madame  de  Merret  to  her 
maid;  "I  will  put  on  my  curl-papers  myself." 

She  divined  some  catastrophe  simply  from 
the  expression  of  her  husband's  face,  and  she 
preferred  to  be  alone  with  him.  When  Rosalie 
was  gone,  or  was  supposed  to  be  gone, 

13  [198] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


for  she  stayed  for  some  moments  in  the  cor- 
ridor, Monsieur  de  Merret  took  his  stand  in 
front  of  his  wife,  and  said  to  her  coldly : 

''Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your 
closet  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  husband  calmly,  and  re- 
plied simply: 

"No,  monsieur." 

That  "  no  "  tore  Monsieur  de  Merret's  heart, 
for  he  did  not  believe  it;  and  yet  his  wife 
had  never  seemed  to  him  purer  and  more 
holy  than  she  seemed  at  that  moment.  He 
rose  to  open  the  closet  door;  Madame  de 
Merret  took  his  hand,  stopped  him,  looked  at 
him  with  a  melancholy  expression,  and  said 
in  a  voice  strangely  moved: 

"If  you  find  no  one,  reflect  that  all  is  at  an 
end  between  us! " 

The  indescribable  dignity  of  his  wife's  atti- 
tude reawoke  the  gentleman's  profound  es- 
teem for  her,  and  inspired  in  him  one  of  those 
resolutions  which  require  only  a  vaster  theatre 
in  order  to  become  immortal. 

[194] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


"No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  do  it,  Josephine. 
In  either  case,  we  should  be  separated  forever. 
Listen;  I  know  all  the  purity  of  your  soul, 
and  I  know  that  you  lead  the  life  of  a  saint, 
and  that  you  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin 
to  save  your  life." 

At  these  words,  Madame  de  Merret  looked 
at  her  husband  with  a  haggard  eye. 

"See,  here  is  your  crucifix;  swear  to  me 
before  God  that  there  is  no  one  there,  and 
I  will  believe  you;  I  will  never  open  that 
door." 

Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and 
said: 

"I  swear  it." 

"Louder,"  said  the  husband,  "and  repeat 
after  me :  'I  swear  before  God  that  there  is 
no  one  in  that  closet.' ' 

She  repeated  the  words  without  confusion. 

"  It  is  well,  "said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  coldly. 
After  a  moment's  silence:  "This  is  a  very 
beautiful  thing  that  I  did  not  know  you  pos- 
sessed," he  said,  as  he  examined  the  crucifix 

[195] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


of  ebony  encrusted  with  silver  and  beautifully 
carved. 

"I  found  it  at  Duvivier's;  when  that  party 
of  prisoners  passed  through  Vendome  last 
year,  he  bought  it  of  a  Spanish  monk." 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  replacing 
the  crucifix  on  the  nail.  And  he  rang.  Ro- 
salie did  not  keep  him  waiting.  Monsieur  de 
Merret  walked  hastily  to  meet  her,  led  her 
into  the  embrasure  of  the  window  looking 
over  the  garden,  and  said  to  her  in  a  low 
voice : 

"I  know  that  Gorenflot  wants  to  marry 
you,  that  poverty  alone  prevents  you  from 
coming  together,  and  that  you  have  told  him 
that  you  would  not  be  his  wife  until  he  found 
some  way  to  become  a  master  masorr.  Well, 
go  to  him,  and  tell  him  to  come  here  with  his 
trowel  and  his  tools.  Manage  so  as  not  to 
wake  anybody  in  his  house  but  him ;  his  for- 
tune will  exceed  your  desires.  Above  all, 
go  out  of  this  house  without  chattering, 
or " 

[196] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


He  frowned.  Rosalie  started,  and  he  called 
her  back. 

"  Here,  take  my  pass-key,"  he  said. 

"Jean!"  shouted  Monsieur  de  Merret  in 
the  corridor,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Jean,  who  was  both  his  coachman  and  his 
confidential  man,  left  his  game  of  brisque  and 
answered  the  summons. 

"Go  to  bed,  all  of  you,"  said  his  master, 
motioning  to  him  to  come  near.  And  he 
added,  but  in  an  undertone:  "  When  they  are 
all  asleep,  asleep,  do  you  understand,  you  will 
come  down  and  let  me  know." 

Monsieur  de  Merret,  who  had  not  lost  sight 
of  his  wife  while  giving  his  orders,  calmly  re- 
turned to  her  side  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
began  to  tell  her  about  the  game  of  bil- 
liards and  the  discussion  at  the  club.  When 
Rosalie  returned,  she  found  monsieur  and 
madame  talking  most  amicably.  The  gentle- 
man had  recently  had  plastered  all  the  rooms 
which  composed  his  reception-apartment  on 
the  ground  floor.  Plaster  is  very  scarce  in 


Honore  de  Balzac 


Vendome,  and  the  cost  of  transportation  in- 
creases the  price  materially;  so  he  had  pur- 
chased quite  a  large  quantity,  knowing  that  he 
would  readily  find  customers  for  any  that  he 
might  have  left.  The  circumstance  suggested 
the  design  which  he  proceeded  to  carry  out. 

"Gorenflot  is  here,  monsieur,"  said  Rosalie 
in  an  undertone. 

"Let  him  come  in,"  replied  the  Picard 
gentleman  aloud. 

Madame  de  Merret  turned  pale  when  she 
saw  the  mason. 

"  Gorenflot,"  said  her  husband,  "go  out  to 
the  carriage-house  and  get  some  bricks,  and 
bring  in  enough  to  wall  up  the  door  of  this 
closet;  you  can  use  the  plaster  that  I  had 
left,  to  plaster  the  wall."  Then,  beckoning 
Rosalie  and  the  workman  to  him,  he  said  in  a 
low  tone:  "Look  you,  Gorenflot,  you  will 
sleep  here  to-night.  But  to-morrow  morning 
you  shall  have  a  passport  to  go  abroad,  to  a 
city  which  I  will  name  to  you.  I  will  give 
you  six  thousand  francs  for  your  journey. 

[198] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


You  will  remain  ten  years  in  that  city;  if  you 
are  not  satisfied  there,  you  can  settle  in  an- 
other city,  provided  that  it  is  in  the  same 
country.  You  will  go  by  way  of  Paris,  where 
you  will  wait  for  me.  There  I  will  give  you 
a  guarantee  to  pay  you  six  thousand  francs 
more  on  your  return,  in  case  you  have  abided 
by  the  conditions  of  our  bargain.  At  that 
price  you  should  be  willing  to  keep  silent 
concerning  what  you  have  done  here  to-night. 
As  for  you,  Rosalie,  I  will  give  you  ten  thou- 
sand francs,  which  will  be  paid  to  you  on 
the  day  of  your  wedding,  provided  that  you 
marry  Gorenflot;  but,  in  order  to  be  married, 
you  will  have  to  be  silent;  if  not,  no  dower." 

"Rosalie,"  said  Madame  de  Merret,  "come 
here  and  arrange  my  hair. 

The  husband  walked  tranquilly  back  and 
forth,  watching  the  door,  the  mason,  and  his 
wife,  but  without  any  outward  sign  of  injuri- 
ous suspicion.  Gorenflot  was  obliged  to  make 
a  noise;  Madame  de  Merret  seized  an  oppor- 
tunity, when  the  workman  was  dropping 

[199] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


some  bricks,  and  when  her  husband  was 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to  say  to 
Rosalie : 

"  A  thousand  francs  a  year  to  you,  my  dear 
child,  if  you  can  tell  Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crack 
at  the  bottom. — Go  and  help  him,"  she  said 
coolly,  aloud. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  said  not  a 
word  while  Gorenflot  was  walling  up  the 
door.  That  silence  was  the  result  of  design 
on  the  husband's  part,  for  he  did  not  choose 
to  allow  his  wife  a  pretext  for  uttering  words 
of  double  meaning;  and  on  Madame  de  Mer- 
ret's  part,  it  was  either  prudence  or  pride. 
When  the  wall  was  half  built,  the  crafty  ma- 
son seized  a  moment  when  the  gentleman's 
back  was  turned,  to  strike  his  pickaxe  through 
one  of  the  panes  of  the  glass  door.  That  act 
gave  Madame  de  Merret  to  understand  that 
Rosalie  had  spoken  to  Gorenflot.  At  that 
moment  all  three  saw  a  man's  face,  dark  and 
sombre,  with  black  hair  and  fiery  eyes.  Be- 
fore her  husband  had  turned,  the  poor  woman 

[200] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


had  time  to  make  a  motion  of  her  head  to 
the  stranger,  to  whom  that  signal  meant, 
"Hope!" 

At  four  o'clock,  about  daybreak,  for  it 
was  September,  the  work  was  finished.  The 
mason  remained  in  the  house  under  the  eye 
of  Jean,  and  Monsieur  de  Merret  slept  in  his 
wife's  chamber.  .In  the  morning,  on  rising, 
he  said  carelessly : 

"Ah  !  by  the  way,  I  must  go  to  the  may- 
or's office  for  the  passport." 

He  put  his  hat  on  his  head,  walked  towards 
the  door,  turned  back  and  took  the  crucifix. 
His  wife  fairly  trembled  with  joy. 

"He  will  go  to  Duvivier's,"  she  thought. 

As  soon  as  the  gentleman  had  left  the  room, 
Madame  de  Merret  rang  for  Rosalie;  then  in  a 
terrible  voice  she  cried : 

"The  pickaxe  !  the  pickaxe  !  and  to  work! 
I  saw  how  Gorenflot  understood  last  night; 
we  shall  have  time  to  make  a  hole,  and  stop 
it  up." 

In  a  twinkling  Rosalie  brought  her  mistress 

[201] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


a  sort  of  small  axe,  and  she,  with  an  ardour 
which  no  words  can  describe,  began  to  de- 
molish the  wall.  She  had  already  loosened 
several  bricks,  when,  as  she  stepped  back  to 
deal  a  blow  even  harder  than  the  preceding 
ones,  she  saw  Monsieur  de  Merret  behind  her; 
she  fainted. 

"  Put  madame  on  her  bed,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, coldly. 

Anticipating  what  was  likely  to  happen 
during  his  absence,  he  had  laid  a  trap  for  his 
wife;  he  had  simply  written  to  the  mayor,  and 
had  sent  a  messenger  to  Duvivier.  The  jew- 
eller arrived  just  as  the  disorder  in  the  room 
had  been  repaired. 

"Duvivier,"  asked  Monsieur  de  Merret, 
"didn't  you  buy  some  crucifixes  from  the 
Spaniards  who  passed  through  here  ?  " 

"No,  monsieur." 

"Very  well;  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  ex- 
changing with  his  wife  a  tigerlike  glance. — 
"Jean,"  he  added,  turning  towards  his  confi- 
dential servant,  "you  will  have  my  meals 

[202] 


La  Grande  Breteche 


served  in  Madame  de  Merret's  room;  she  is  ill, 
and  I  shall  not  leave  her  until  she  is  well 
again." 

The  cruel  man  remained  with  his  wife 
twenty  days.  During  the  first  days,  when 
there  was  a  noise  in  the  walled-up  closet  and 
Josephine  attempted  to  implore  him  in  behalf 
of  the  dying  unknown,  he  replied,  not  allow- 
ing her  to  utter  a  word : 

"You  have  sworn  on  the  cross  that  there 
was  no  one  there." 

1832. 


[2031 


The  Conscript 


TO    MY    DEAR    FRIEND,  ALBERT    MARCHAND    DE 
LA  R1BELLERIE,  TOURS,  1836. 


The  Conscript 

"  Sometimes  they  saw  him,  by  a  phenomenon  of  vision 
or  of  locomotion,  abolish  space  in  its  two  elements  of 
time  and  distance,  one  of  which  is  intellectual  and  the 
other  physical." — Intellectual  History  of  Louis  Lambert. 

ON  a  certain  evening  in  the  month  of  No- 
vember, 1793,  the  principal  people  of 
Carentan  were  gathered  in  the  salon  of 
Madame  de  Dey,  at  whose  house  the  assem- 
bly was  held  daily.  Some  circumstances 
which  would  not  have  attracted  attention  in  a 
large  city,  but  which  were  certain  to  cause  a 
flutter  in  a  small  one,  lent  to  this  customary 
meeting  an  unusual  degree  of  interest.  Two 
days  before,  Madame  de  Dey  had  closed  her 
door  to  her  guests,  whom  she  had  also  ex- 
cused herself  from  receiving  on  the  preceding 
day,  on  the  pretext  of  an  indisposition.  In 
ordinary  times,  these  two  occurrences  would 
have  produced  the  same  effect  in  Carentan 

[207] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


that  the  closing  of  all  the  theatres  would  pro- 
duce in  Paris.  In  those  days  existence  was 
to  a  certain  extent  incomplete.  And  in  1793 
the  conduct  of  Madame  de  Dey  might  have 
had  the  most  deplorable  results.  The  slight- 
est venturesome  proceeding  almost  always  be- 
came a  question  of  life  or  death  for  the  nobles 
of  that  period.  In  order  to  understand  the 
intense  curiosity  and  the  narrow-minded  cun- 
ning which  enlivened  the  Norman  counte- 
nances of  all  those  people  during  the  evening, 
but  especially  in  order  that  we  may  share  the 
secret  anxiety  of  Madame  de  Dey,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  explain  the  role  that  she  played  at 
Carentan.  As  the  critical  position  in  which 
she  found  herself  at  that  moment  was  un- 
doubtedly identical  with  that  of  many  people 
during  the  Revolution,  the  sympathies  of  more 
than  one  reader  will  give  the  needed  touch  of 
colour  to  this  narrative. 

Madame  de  Dey,  the  widow  of  a  lieutenant- 
general  and  chevalier  of  the  Orders,  had  left 
the  court  at  the  beginning  of  the  emigration. 

[208] 


The  Conscript 

As  she  possessed  considerable  property  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Carentan,  she  had  taken 
refuge  there,  hoping  that  the  influence  of  the 
Terror  would  not  be  much  felt  so  far  from 
Paris.  This  prevision,  based  upon  exact 
knowledge  of  the  province,  proved  to  be  just. 
The  Revolution  did  little  devastation  in  Lower 
Normandy.  Although,  when  Madame  de  Dey 
visited  her  estates  formerly,  she  used  to  see 
only  the  noble  families  of  the  province,  she 
had  from  policy  thrown  her  house  open  to  the 
leading  bourgeois  of  the  town,  and  to  the  new 
authorities,  striving  to  make  them  proud  of 
their  conquest  of  her,  without  arousing  either 
hatred  or  jealousy  in  their  minds.  Gracious 
and  amiable,  endowed  with  that  indescribable 
gentleness  of  manner  which  attracts  without 
resort  to  self-abasement  or  to  entreaties,  she 
had  succeeded  in  winning  general  esteem  by 
the  most  exquisite  tact,  the  wise  promptings  of 
which  had  enabled  her  to  maintain  her  stand 
on  the  narrow  line  where  she  could  satisfy 
the  demands  of  that  mixed  society,  without 

14  [809] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


humiliating  the  self-esteem  of  the  parvenus 
or  offending  that  of  her  former  friends. 

About  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  she  still 
retained,  not  that  fresh  and  buxom  beauty 
which  distinguishes  the  young  women  of 
Lower  Normandy,  but  a  slender,  and,  so  to 
speak,  aristocratic  beauty.  Her  features  were 
small  and  refined,  her  figure  slender  and  will- 
owy. When  she  spoke,  her  pale  face  would 
seem  to  brighten  and  to  take  on  life.  Her 
great  black  eyes  were  full  of  suavity,  but 
their  placid  and  devout  expression  seemed  to 
indicate  that  the  active  principle  of  her  exist- 
ence had  ceased  to  be.  Married  in  the  flower 
of  her  youth  to  an  old  and  jealous  soldier,  the 
falseness  of  her  position  in  the  centre  of  a 
dissipated  court  contributed  much,  no  doubt, 
to  cast  a  veil  of  serious  melancholy  over  a  face 
on  which  the  charm  and  vivacity  of  love  must 
formerly  have  shone  bright.  Constantly 
obliged  to  restrain  the  ingenuous  impulses, 
the  emotions  of  a  woman,  at  a  time  when  she 
still  feels  instead  of  reflecting,  passion  had  re- 

F210] 


The  Conscript 

mained  unsullied  in  the  depths  of  her  heart. 
So  it  was  that  her  principal  attraction  was 
due  to  the  youthful  simplicity  which  at  inter- 
vals her  face  betrayed,  and  which  gave  to  her 
ideas  a  nai've  expression  of  desire.  Her  as- 
pect imposed  respect,  but  there  were  always 
in  her  bearing  and  in  her  voice  symptoms  of 
an  outreaching  towards  an  unknown  future,  as 
in  a  young  girl;  the  most  unsusceptible  man 
soon  found  himself  falling  in  love  with  her, 
and  nevertheless  retained  a  sort  of  respectful 
dread,  inspired  by  her  courteous  manners, 
which  were  most  imposing.  Her  soul,  natu- 
rally great,  and  strengthened  by  painful  strug- 
gles, seemed  to  be  too  far  removed  from 
the  common  herd,  and  men  realised  their 
limitations. 

That  soul  necessarily  demanded  an  exalted 
passion.  So  that  Madame  de  Dey's  affections 
were  concentrated  in  a  single  sentiment,  the 
sentiment  of  maternity.  The  happiness  and 
pleasures  of.  which  her  married  life  had  been 
deprived,  she  found  in  her  excessive  love  for 
[an] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


her  son.  She  loved  him  not  only  with  the 
pure  and  profound  devotion  of  a  mother,  but 
with  the  coquetry  of  a  mistress,  the  jealousy 
of  a  wife.  She  was  unhappy  when  separated 
from  him,  anxious  during  his  absence,  could 
never  see  enough  of  him,  lived  only  in  him 
and  for  him.  In  order  to  make  men  under- 
stand the  strength  of  this  feeling,  it  will  suffice 
to  add  that  this  son  was  not  only  Madame  de 
Dey's  only  child,  but  her  last  remaining  rela- 
tive, the  only  living  being  to  whom  she  could 
attach  the  fears,  the  hopes,  and  the  joys  of 
her  life.  The  late  Count  de  Dey  was  the  last 
scion  of  his  family,  as  she  was  the  last  heiress 
of  hers.  Thus  human  schemes  and  interests 
were  in  accord  with  the  noblest  cravings  of 
the  soul  to  intensify  in  the  countess's  heart  a 
sentiment  which  is  always  strong  in  women. 
She  had  brought  up  her  son  only  with  infinite 
difficulty,  which  had  made  him  dearer  than 
ever  to  her;  twenty  times  the  doctors  prophe- 
sied his  death;  but,  trusting  in  her  presenti- 
ments and  her  hopes,  she  had  the  inexpressible 

[212] 


The  Conscript 

joy  of  seeing  him  pass  through  the  dangers 
of  childhood  unscathed,  and  of  exulting  in 
the  upbuilding  of  his  constitution  in  spite  of 
the  decrees  of  the  faculty. 

Thanks  to  constant  care,  her  son  had  grown 
and  had  attained  such  perfect  development, 
that  at  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  considered 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  cavaliers  at 
Versailles.  Lastly — a  piece  of  good  fortune 
which  does  not  crown  the  efforts  of  all  moth- 
ers— she  was  adored  by  her  son;  their  hearts 
were  bound  together  by  sympathies  that  were 
fraternal.  Even  if  they  had  not  been  connected 
by  the  decree  of  nature,  they  would  have  felt 
instinctively  for  each  other  that  affection  of  one 
being  for  another  so  rarely  met  with  in  life. 
Appointed  sublieutenant  of  dragoons  at  eigh- 
teen, the  young  man  had  complied  with  the 
prevailing  ideas  of  the  requirements  of  honour 
at  that  period,  by  following  the  princes  when 
they  emigrated. 

Thus  Madame  de  Dey,  of  noble  birth, 
wealthy,  and  the  mother  of  an  emigre,  was 

(213J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


fully  alive  to  the  dangers  of  her  painful  situa- 
tion. As  she  had  no  other  aim  than  to  preserve 
a  great  fortune  for  her  son,  she  had  renounced 
the  happiness  of  accompanying  him;  but, 
when  she  read  the  harsh  laws  by  virtue  of 
which  the  Republic  daily  confiscated  the  pro- 
perty of  the  emigres  at  Carentan,  she  ap- 
plauded herself  for  her  courageous  act.  Was 
she  not  guarding  her  son's  treasures  at  the 
peril  of  her  life  ?  Then,  when  she  learned  of 
the  shocking  executions  ordered  by  the  Con- 
vention, she  slept  undisturbed,  happy  to  know 
that  her  only  treasure  was  in  safety,  far  from 
all  perils  and  all  scaffolds.  She  took  pleasure 
in  the  belief  that  she  had  adopted  the  best 
course  to  save  all  his  fortunes  at  once.  Mak- 
ing the  concessions  to  this  secret  thought 
which  the  disasters  of  the  time  demanded, 
without  compromising  her  womanly  dignity 
or  her  aristocratic  beliefs,  she  enveloped  her 
sorrows  in  impenetrable  mystery.  She  had 
realised  the  difficulties  which  awaited  her  at 
Carentan.  To  go  thither  and  assume  the  first 

[214] 


The  Conscript 

place  in  society  —  was  it  not  equivalent  to 
defying  the  scaffold  every  day  ?  But,  sus- 
tained by  a  mother's  courage,  she  succeeded 
in  winning  the  affection  of  the  poor  by  re- 
lieving all  sorts  of  misery  indiscriminately, 
and  made  herself  necessary  to  the  rich  by 
taking  the  lead  in  their  pleasures. 

She  received  the  prosecuting  attorney  of 
the  commune,  the  mayor,  the  president  of 
the  district,  the  public  accuser,  and  even  the 
judges  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal.  The 
first  four  of  these  functionaries,  being  un- 
married, paid  court  to  her,  in  the  hope  of 
marrying  her,  whether  by  terrifying  her  by  the 
injury  which  they  had  it  in  their  power  to  do 
her,  or  by  offering  her  their  protection.  The 
public  accuser,  formerly  an  attorney  at  Caen, 
where  he  had  been  employed  by  the  countess, 
tried  to  win  her  love  by  conduct  full  of  devo- 
tion and  generosity.  A  dangerous  scheme! 
He  was  the  most  formidable  of  all  the  suitors. 
He  alone  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
condition  of  his  former  client's  large  fortune. 

[215] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


His  passion  was  inevitably  intensified  by  all 
the  cravings  of  an  avarice  which  rested  upon 
almost  unlimited  power,  upon  the  right  of  life 
or  death  throughout  the  district.  This  man, 
who  was  still  young,  displayed  so  much  no- 
bility in  his  behaviour  that  Madame  de  Dey 
had  been  unable  as  yet  to  make  up  her  mind 
concerning  him.  But,  scorning  the  danger 
that  lay  in  a  contest  of  wits  with  Normans, 
she  employed  the  inventive  genius  and  the 
cunning  which  nature  has  allotted  to  woman, 
to  play  those  rivals  against  one  another.  By 
gaining  time,  she  hoped  to  arrive  safe  and 
sound  at  the  end  of  her  troubles.  At  that 
time,  the  royalists  in  the  interior  of  France 
flattered  themselves  that  each  day  would  see 
the  close  of  the  Revolution;  and  that  convic- 
tion was  the  ruin  of  a  great  many  of  them. 

Despite  these  obstacles,  the  countess  had 
skillfully  maintained  her  independence  down 
to  the  day  when,  with  incomprehensible  im- 
prudence, she  had  conceived  the  idea  of  clos- 
ing her  door.  The  interest  which  she  inspired 

[216] 


The  Conscript 

was  so  profound  and  so  genuine  that  the 
people  who  came  to  her  house  that  evening 
were  greatly  distressed  when  they  learned 
that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  receive  them ; 
then,  with  the  outspoken  curiosity  which  is  a 
part  of  provincial  manners,  they  inquired  con- 
cerning the  misfortune,  the  sorrow,  or  the 
disease  which  had  afflicted  Madame  de  Dey. 
To  these  questions,  an  old  housekeeper  called 
Brigitte  replied  that  her  mistress  had  shut  her- 
self into  her  room,  and  would  not  see  any- 
body, not  even  her  servants.  The  cloistral 
existence,  so  to  speak,  which  the  people  of  a 
small  town  lead,  gives  birth  in  them  to  such 
an  unconquerable  habit  of  analysing  and  com- 
menting upon  the  actions  of  other  people, 
that,  after  expressing  their  sympathy  for 
Madame  de  Dey,  without  an  idea  whether  she 
was  really  happy  or  unhappy,  they  all  began 
to  speculate  upon  the  causes  of  her  abrupt 
seclusion. 

"  If  she  were  ill,"  said  one  curious  individ- 
ual,   "she  would  have  sent  for  the  doctor; 

[217] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


but  the  doctor  was  at  my  house  all  day,  play- 
ing chess.  He  said  with  a  laugh  that  in  these 
days  there  is  but  one  disease,  and  that  is 
unfortunately  incurable." 

This  jest  was  put  forward  apologetically. 
Thereupon,  men,  women,  old  men,  and  maid- 
ens began  to  search  the  vast  field  of  conject- 
ure. Every  one  fancied  that  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  secret,  and  that  secret  engrossed 
the  imaginations  of  them  all.  The  next  day, 
the  suspicions  became  embittered.  As  life  in 
a  small  town  is  open  to  all,  the  women  were 
the  first  to  learn  that  Brigitte  had  laid  in  more 
supplies  than  usual  at  the  market.  That  fact 
could  not  be  denied.  Brigitte  had  been  seen 
in  the  morning,  in  the  square,  and  —  a  most 
extraordinary  thing — she  had  bought  the  only 
hare  that  was  offered  for  sale.  Now  the 
whole  town  knew  that  Madame  de  Dey  did 
not  like  game.  The  hare  became  the  starting- 
point  for  endless  suppositions.  When  taking 
their  daily  walk,  old  men  observed  in  the 
countess's  house  a  sort  of  concentrated  activity 

[218] 


The  Conscript 

which  was  made  manifest  by  the  very  precau- 
tions which  the  servants  took  to  conceal  it. 
The  valet  was  seen  beating  a  rug  in  the  gar- 
den; on  the  day  before,  no  one  would  have 
paid  any  heed  to  it;  but  that  rug  became  a 
link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  to  support  the 
romances  which  everybody  was  engaged  in 
constructing.  Every  person  had  his  own. 

On  the  second  day,  when  they  learned  that 
Madame  de  Dey  proclaimed  that  she  was  indis- 
posed, the  principal  persons  of  Carentan  met 
in  the  evening  at  the  house  of  the  mayor's 
brother,  an  ex-merchant,  a  married  man,  of  up- 
right character  and  generally  esteemed,  and  for 
whom  the  countess  entertained  a  high  regard. 
There  all  the  aspirants  to  the  rich  widow's 
hand  had  a  more  or  less  probable  story  to  tell; 
and  each  of  them  hoped  to  turn  to  his  advan- 
tage the  secret  circumstances  which  forced 
her  to  compromise  herself  thus.  The  public 
accuser  imagined  a  complete  drama  in  which 
Madame  de  Dey's  son  was  brought  to  her 
house  by  night.  The  mayor  favoured  the  idea 

[219] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


of  a  priest  who  had  not  taken  the  oath,  arriv- 
ing from  La  Vendee  and  asking  her  for  shelter; 
but  the  purchase  of  a  hare  on  Friday  embar- 
rassed the  mayor  greatly.  The  president  of 
the  district  was  strong  in  his  conviction  that 
it  was  a  leader  of  Chouans  or  of  Vendeans, 
hotly  pursued.  Others  suggested  a  nobleman 
escaped  from  one  of  the  prisons  of  Paris.  In 
short,  one  and  all  suspected  the  countess  of 
being  guilty  of  one  of  those  acts  of  generosity 
which  the  laws  of  that  day  stigmatised  as 
crimes,  and  which  might  lead  to  the  scaffold. 
The  public  accuser  said  in  an  undertone  that 
they  must  hold  their  tongues,  and  try  to 
snatch  the  unfortunate  woman  from  the  abyss 
towards  which  she  was  rapidly  precipitating 
herself. 

"If  you  talk  about  this  business,"  he  added, 
"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  interfere,  to  search  her 
house,  and  then " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  they  all 
understood  his  reticence. 

The    countess's   sincere    friends    were    so 

[220] 


The  Conscript 

alarmed  for  her  that,  during  the  morning  of 
the  third  day,  the  procureur-syndic  of  the 
commune  caused  his  wife  to  write  her  a  note 
to  urge  her  to  receive  as  usual  that  evening. 
The  old  merchant,  being  bolder,  called  at 
Madame  de  Dey's  house  in  the  morning. 
Trusting  in  the  service  which  he  proposed  to 
render  her,  he  demanded  to  be  shown  to  her 
presence,  and  was  thunderstruck  when  he 
saw  her  in  the  garden,  engaged  in  cutting  the 
last  flowers  from  the  beds,  to  supply  her  vases. 

"  Doubtless  she  has  been  sheltering  her 
lover,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself,  seized 
with  compassion  for  the  fascinating  woman. 

The  strange  expression  on  the  countess's 
face  confirmed  him  in  his  suspicions.  Deeply 
touched  by  that  devotion  so  natural  to  a 
woman,  and  which  always  moves  our  admi- 
ration, because  all  men  are  flattered  by  the 
sacrifices  which  a  woman  makes  for  a  man,  the 
merchant  informed  the  countess  of  the  reports 
which  were  current  in  the  town,  and  of  the 
dangerous  position  in  which  she  stood. 

[221] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"  But,"  he  said,  as  he  concluded,  "although 
there  are  some  among  our  officials  who  are 
not  indisposed  to  forgive  you  for  an  act  of 
heroism  of 'which  a  priest  is  the  object,  no  one 
will  pity  you  if  they  discover  that  you  are  sac- 
rificing yourself  to  the  affections  of  the  heart." 

At  these  words  Madame  de  Dey  looked  at 
the  old  man  with  an  expression  of  despera- 
tion and  terror  which  made  him  shudder,  old 
man  though  he  was. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  taking  his  hand  and 
leading  him  to  her  bedroom,  where,  after 
making  sure  that  they  were  alone,  she  took 
from  her  bosom  a  soiled  and  wrinkled  letter. 
"Read,"  she  cried,  making  a  violent  effort 
to  pronounce  the  word. 

She  fell  into  her  chair  as  if  utterly  over- 
whelmed. While  the  old  gentleman  was 
feeling  for  his  spectacles  and  wiping  them, 
she  fastened  her  eyes  upon  him  and  scrutin- 
ised him  for  the  first  time  with  curiosity; 
then  she  said  softly,  in  an  altered  voice: 

"  I  trust  you." 

[222] 


The  Conscript 

"Am  I  not  sharing  your  crime?"  replied 
the  old  man,  simply. 

She  started;  for  the  first  time  her  heart 
found  itself  in  sympathy  with  another  heart 
in  that  little  town.  The  old  merchant  sud- 
denly understood  both  the  distress  and  the  joy 
of  the  countess.  Her  son  had  taken  part  in 
the  Granville  expedition;  he  wrote  to  his 
mother  from  prison,  imparting  to  her  one  sad 
but  sweet  hope.  Having  no  doubt  of  his 
success  in  escaping,  he  mentioned  three  days 
in  which  he  might  appear  at  her  house  in 
disguise.  The  fatal  letter  contained  heart- 
rending farewells  in  case  he  should  not  be  at 
Carentan  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day; 
and  he  begged  his  mother  to  hand  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  to  the  messenger, 
who  had  undertaken  to  carry  that  letter  to 
her  through  innumerable  perils.  The  paper 
shook  in  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  And  this  is  the  third  day !  "  cried  Madame 
de  Dey,  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  seized  the 
letter,  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"You  have  been  imprudent,"  said  the 
merchant;  "  why  did  you  lay  in  provisions  ?" 

"  Why,  he  may  arrive  almost  starved,  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  and " 

She  did  not  finish. 

"  I  am  sure  of  my  brother,"  said  the  old 
man,  "and  I  will  go  and  enlist  him  on  your 
side." 

In  this  emergency  the  old  tradesman  re- 
covered the  shrewdness  which  he  had  form- 
erly displayed  in  his  business,  and  gave  advice 
instinct  with  prudence  and  sagacity.  After 
agreeing  upon  all  that  they  were  both  to  say 
and  to  do,  the  old  man  went  about,  on 
cleverly  devised  pretexts,  to  the  principal 
houses  of  Carentan,  where  he  announced  that 
Madame  de  Dey,  whom  he  had  just  seen, 
would  receive  that  evening  in  spite  of  her  in- 
disposition. Pitting  his  shrewdness  against 
the  inborn  Norman  cunning,  in  the  exami- 
nation to  which  each  family  subjected  him 
in  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  countess's  ill- 
ness, he  succeeded  in  leading  astray  almost 

[224] 


The  Conscript 

everybody  who  was  interested  in  that  myste- 
rious affair.  His  first  visit  produced  a  mar- 
vellous effect.  He  stated,  in  the  presence  of 
a  gouty  old  lady,  that  Madame  de  Dey  had 
nearly  died  of  an  attack  of  gout  in  the 
stomach;  as  the  famous  Tronchin  had  once 
recommended  her,  in  such  a  case,  to  place  on 
her  chest  the  skin  of  a  hare,  flayed  alive,  and 
to  stay  in  bed  and  not  move,  the  countess, 
who  had  been  at  death's  door  two  days  be- 
fore, having  followed  scrupulously  Tronchin's 
advice,  found  herself  sufficiently  recovered  to 
see  those  who  cared  to  call  on  her  that  eve- 
ning. That  fable  had  a  prodigious  success, 
and  the  Carentan  doctor,  a  royalist  in  secret, 
added  to  its  effect  by  the  air  of  authority  with 
which  he  discussed  the  remedy.  Neverthe- 
less, suspicion  had  taken  too  deep  root  in  the 
minds  of  some  obstinate  persons,  or  some  phi- 
losophers, to  be  entirely  dispelled ;  so  that,  in 
the  evening,  those  who  were  regular  habitues 
of  Madame  de  Dey's  salon  arrived  there  early; 
some  in  order  to  watch  her  face,  others  from 

15  [225] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


friendly  regard;  and  the  majority  were  im- 
pressed by  the  marvellous  nature  of  her  re- 
covery. 

They  found  the  countess  seated  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  huge  fireplace  of  her  salon,  which 
was  almost  as  modestly  furnished  as  those  of 
the  people  of  Carentan;  for,  in  order  not  to 
offend  the  sensitive  self-esteem  of  her  guests, 
she  denied  herself  the  luxury  to  which  she  had 
always  been  accustomed,  and  had  changed 
nothing  in  her  house.  The  floor  of  the  recep- 
tion-room was  not  even  polished.  She  left 
old-fashioned  dark  tapestries  on  the  walls,  she 
retained  the  native  furniture,  burned  tallow 
candles,  and  followed  the  customs  of  the  town, 
espousing  provincial  life,  and  recoiling  neither 
from  the  most  rasping  pettinesses  nor  the 
most  unpleasant  privations.  But,  realising  that 
her  guests  would  forgive  her  for  any  display 
of  splendour  which  aimed  at  their  personal 
comfort,  she  neglected  nothing  when  it  was  a 
quertion  of  affording  them  enjoyment;  so 
that  ;he  always  gave  them  excellent  dinners. 

[2261 


The  Conscript 

She  even  went  so  far  as  to  make  a  pretence  at 
miserliness,  to  please  those  calculating  minds; 
and  after  causing  certain  concessions  in  the 
way  of  luxurious  living  to  be  extorted  from 
her,  she  seemed  to  comply  with  a  good  grace. 
About  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  there- 
fore, the  best  of  the  uninteresting  society  of 
Carentan  was  assembled  at  her  house,  and 
formed  a  large  circle  about  the  fireplace.  The 
mistress  of  the  house,  sustained  in  her  misery 
by  the  compassionate  glances  which  the  old 
tradesman  bestowed  upon  her,  submitted 
with  extraordinary  courage  to  the  minute 
questionings,  the  trivial  and  stupid  reasoning 
of  her  guests.  But  at  every  blow  of  the 
knocker  at  her  door,  and  whenever  she  heard 
footsteps  in  the  street,  she  concealed  her  emo- 
tion by  raising  some  question  of  interest  to 
the  welfare  of  the  province.  She  started 
noisy  discussions  concerning  the  quality  of 
the  season's  cider,  and  was  so  well  seconded 
by  her  confidant  that  her  company  almost  for- 
got to  watch  her,  her  manner  was  so  natural 

[227] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


and  her  self-possession  so  imperturbable. 
The  public  accuser  and  one  of  the  judges  of 
the  Revolutionary  Tribunal  sat  silent,  carefully 
watching  every  movement  of  her  face  and 
listening  to  every  sound  in  the  house,  not- 
withstanding the  uproar;  and  on  several 
occasions  they  asked  her  very  embarrassing 
questions,  which,  however,  the  countess  an- 
swered with  marvellous  presence  of  mind. 
Mothers  have  such  an  inexhaustible  store  of 
courage  !  When  Madame  de  Dey  had  ar- 
ranged the  card-tables,  placed  everybody  at 
a  table  of  boston,  reversis,  or  whist,  she  re- 
mained a  few  moments  talking  with  some 
young  people,  with  the  utmost  nonchalance, 
playing  her  part  like  a  consummate  actress. 
She  suggested  a  game  of  loto — said  that  she 
alone  knew  where  it  was,  and  disappeared. 

"I  am  suffocating,  my  poor  Brigitte!"  she 
cried,  wiping  away  the  tears  that  gushed  from 
her  eyes,  which  gleamed  with  fever,  anxiety, 
and  impatience.  "He  does  not  come,"  she 
continued,  looking  about  the  chamber  to 

[228] 


The  Conscript 

which  she  had  flown.  "  Here,  I  breathe  again 
and  I  live.  A  few  moments  more,  and  he  will 
be  here ;  for  he  still  lives,  I  am  certain ;  my  heart 
tells  me  so!  Do  you  hear  nothing,  Brigitte  ? 
Oh!  I  would  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  know 
whether  he  is  in  prison  or  travelling  through 

the  country!     I  would  like  not  to  think " 

She  looked  about  again  to  make  sure  that 
everything  was  in  order  in  the  room.  A  bright 
fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth;  the  shutters 
were  carefully  closed;  the  furniture  glistened 
with  cleanliness;  the  way  in  which  the  bed 
was  made  proved  that  the  countess  had  as- 
sisted Brigitte  in  the  smallest  details;  and  her 
hopes  betrayed  themselves  in  the  scrupulous 
care  which  seemed  to  have  been  taken  in  that 
room,  where  the  sweet  charm  of  love  and 
its  most  chaste  caresses  exhaled  in  the  per- 
fume of  the  flowers.  A  mother  alone  could 
have  anticipated  the  desires  of  a  soldier,  and 
have  arranged  to  fulfil  them  all  so  perfectly. 
A  dainty  meal,  choice  wines,  clean  linen,  and 
dry  shoes  —  in  a  word,  all  that  was  likely  to 

[229] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


be  necessary  or  agreeable  to  a  weary  traveller 
was  there  set  forth,  so  that  he  need  lack 
nothing,  so  that  the  joy  of  home  might  make 
known  to  him  a  mother's  love. 

"Brigitte?"  said  the  countess  in  a  heart- 
rending tone,  as  she  placed  a  chair  at  the 
table,  as  if  to  give  reality  to  her  longings,  to 
intensify  the  strength  of  her  illusions. 

"  Oh!  he  will  come,  madame;  he  is  n't  far 
away.  I  don't  doubt  that  he  's  alive  and  on 
his  way  here,"  replied  Brigitte.  "I  put  a 
key  in  the  Bible  and  I  held  it  on  my  fingers 
while  Cottin  read  the  Gospel  of  St.  John; 
and,  madame,  the  key  did  n't  turn." 

"  Is  that  a  sure  sign  ?  "  asked  the  countess. 

"  Oh!  it  is  certain,  madame;  I  would  wager 
my  salvation  that  he  is  still  alive.  God  can't 
make  a  mistake." 

"  Despite  the  danger  that  awaits  him  here, 
I  would  like  right  well  to  see  him." 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Auguste!  "  cried  Brigitte; 
"  I  suppose  he  is  somewhere  on  the  road, 
on  foot!" 

(830| 


The  Conscript 

"And  there  is  the  church  clock  striking 
eight!  "  cried  the  countess,  in  dismay. 

She  was  afraid  that  she  had  remained  longer 
than  she  ought  in  that  room,  where  she  had 
faith  in  the  life  of  her  son  because  she  looked 
upon  all  that  meant  life  to  him.  She  went 
down-stairs;  but  before  entering  the  salon, 
she  stood  a  moment  in  the  vestibule,  listening 
to  see  if  any  sound  woke  the  silent  echoes 
of  the  town.  She  smiled  at  Brigitte's  hus- 
band, who  was  on  sentry-duty,  and  whose 
eyes  seemed  dazed  by  dint  of  strained  atten- 
tion to  the  murmurs  in  the  square  and  in  the 
streets.  She  saw  her  son  in  everything  and 
everywhere.  In  a  moment  she  returned  to 
the  salon,  affecting  a  jovial  air,  and  began  to 
play  loto  with  some  young  girls;  but  from 
time  to  time  she  complained  of  feeling  ill,  and 
returned  to  her  chair  at  the  fireplace. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  persons  and 
things  in  the  house  of  Madame  de  Dey,  while, 
on  the  road  from  Paris  to  Cherbourg,  a  young 

[281] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


man  dressed  in  a  dark  carmagnole,  the  regu- 
lation costume  at  that  period,  strode  along 
towards  Carentan.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
conscription,  there  was  little  or  no  discipline. 
The  demands  of  the  moment  made  it  im- 
possible for  the  Republic  to  equip  all  of  its 
soldiers  at  once,  and  it  was  no  rare  thing  to 
see  the  roads  covered  with  conscripts  still 
wearing  their  civilian  dress.  These  young 
men  marched  in  advance  of  their  battalions 
to  the  halting-places,  or  loitered  behind,  for 
their  progress  was  regulated  by  their  ability 
to  endure  the  fatigue  of  a  long  march. 

The  traveller  with  whom  we  have  to  do 
was  some  distance  in  advance  of  the  column 
of  conscripts  on  its  way  to  Cherbourg,  which 
the  mayor  of  Carentan  was  momentarily  ex- 
pecting, in  order  to  distribute  lodging-tickets 
among  them.  The  young  man  walked  with 
a  heavy  but  still  firm  step,  and  his  bearing 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  had  long  been 
familiar  with  the  hardships  of  military  life. 
Although  the  moon  was  shining  on  the 

[232] 


The  Conscript 

pastures  about  Carentan,  he  had  noticed  some 
great  white  clouds  which  seemed  on  the 
point  of  discharging  snow  upon  the  country, 
and  the  fear  of  being  surprised  by  a  storm 
doubtless  quickened  his  gait,  which  was 
more  rapid  than  his  weariness  made  comfort- 
able. He  had  an  almost  empty  knapsack  on 
his  back,  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  boxwood 
cane,  cut  from  one  of  the  high,  broad  hedges 
formed  by  that  shrub  around  most  of  the 
estates  in  Lower  Normandy.  The  solitary 
traveller  entered  Carentan,  whose  towers,  of 
fantastic  aspect  in  the  moonlight,  had  ap- 
peared to  him  a  moment  before.  His  steps 
awoke  the  echoes  of  the  silent  streets,  where 
he  met  no  one;  he  was  obliged  to  ask  a 
weaver  who  was  still  at  work  to  point  out 
the  mayor's  abode.  That  magistrate  lived 
only  a  short  distance  away,  and  the  conscript 
soon  found  himself  safe  under  the  porch  of 
his  house,  where  he  seated  himself  on  a  stone 
bench,  waiting  for  the;  lodging-ticket  which 
he  had  asked  for.  But,  being  summoned  by 

[233] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  mayor,  he  appeared  before  him,  and  was 
subjected  to  a  careful  examination.  The  sol- 
dier was  a  young  man  of  attractive  appear- 
ance, who  apparently  belonged  to  some 
family  of  distinction.  His  manner  indicated 
noble  birth,  and  the  intelligence  due  to  a 
good  education  was  manifest  in  his  features. 

"  What,  is  your  name  ?  "  the  mayor  asked, 
with  a  shrewd  glance  at  him. 

"Julien  Jussieu,"  replied  the  conscript. 

"  And  you  come  from ?  "  said  the  mag- 
istrate, with  an  incredulous  smile. 

"  From  Paris." 

"Your  comrades  must  be  far  behind?" 
continued  the  Norman  in  a  mocking  tone. 

"I  am  three  leagues  ahead  of  the  bat- 
talion." 

"  Doubtless  some  sentimental  reason  brings 
you  to  Carentan,  citizen  conscript  ?  "  queried 
the  mayor,  slyly.  "  It  is  all  right,''  he  added, 
imposing  silence,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
upon  the  young  man,  who  was  about  to 
speak.  "We  know  where  to  send  you. 


The  Conscript 

Here,"  he  said,  handing  him  the  lodging- 
ticket;  "here,  Citizen Jussieu. " 

There'  was  a  perceptible  tinge  of  irony  in 
the  tone  in  which  the  magistrate  uttered  these 
last  two  words,  as  he  held  out  a  ticket  upon 
which  Madame  de  Dey's  name  was  written. 
The  young  man  read  the  address  with  an  air 
of  curiosity. 

"He  knows  very  well  that  he  hasn't  far 
to  go,  and  when  he  gets  outside,  it  won  't 
take  him  long  to  cross  the  square,"  cried  the 
mayor,  speaking  to  himself,  while  the  young 
man  went  out.  "  He  's  a  bold  young  fellow. 
May  God  protect  him!  He  has  an  answer 
for  everything.  However,  if  any  other  than 
I  had  asked  to  see  his  papers,  he  would  have 
been  lost!  " 

At  that  moment  the  clock  of  Carentan 
struck  half  past  nine;  the  torches  were  being 
lighted  in  Madame  de  Dey's  anteroom,  and 
the  servants  were  assisting  their  masters  and 
mistresses  to  put  on  their  cloaks,  their  over- 
coats, and  their  mantles ;  the  card-players  had 

(235} 


Honore  de  Balzac 


settled  their  accounts  and  were  about  to 
withdraw  in  a  body,  according  to  the  usual 
custom  in  all  small  towns. 

"It  seems  that  the  public  accuser  proposes 
to  remain,"  said  a  lady,  observing  that  that 
important  functionary  was  missing  when  they 
were  about  to  separate  to  seek  their  respect- 
ive homes,  after  exhausting  all  the  formulas 
of  leave-taking. 

The  redoubtable  magistrate  was  in  fact  alone 
with  the  countess,  who  waited  in  fear  and 
trembling  until  it  should  please  him  to  go. 

"Citizeness,"  he  said  at  length,  after  a  long 
silence  in  which  there  was  something  horri- 
ble, "I  am  here  to  see  that  the  laws  of  the 
Republic  are  observed." 

Madame  de  Dey  shuddered. 

' '  Have  you  no  revelations  to  make  to  me  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"None,"  she  replied  in  amazement. 

"Ah,  madame!"  cried  the  accuser,  sitting 
down  beside  her  and  changing  his  tone,  "at 
this  moment,  for  lack  of  a  word,  either  you 


The  Conscript 

or  I  may  bring  our  heads  to  the  scaffold.  I 
have  observed  your  temperament,  your  heart, 
your  manners,  too  closely  to  share  the  error 
into  which  you  have  led  your  guests  to-night. 
You  are  expecting  your  son,  I  am  absolutely 
certain." 

The  countess  made  a  gesture  of  denial;  but 
she  had  turned  pale,  the  muscles  of  her  face 
had  contracted,  by  virtue  of  the  overpowering 
necessity  to  display  a  deceitful  calmness,  and 
the  accuser's  implacable  eye  lost  none  of  her 
movements. 

"Very  well;  receive  him,"  continued  the 
revolutionary  magistrate;  "but  do  not  let 
him  remain  under  your  roof  later  than  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  daybreak  I  shall 
come  here  armed  with  a  denunciation  which 
I  shall  procure." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  stupefied  air,  which 
would  have  aroused  the  pity  of  a  tigress. 

"I  shall  prove,"  he  said  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"the  falseness  of  the  denunciation  by  a  thor- 
ough search,  and  the  nature  of  my  report  will 

C237) 


Honore  de  Balzac 


place  you  out  of  the  reach  of  any  future  suspi- 
cion. I  shall  speak  of  your  patriotic  gifts,  of 
your  true  citizenship,  and  we  shall  all  be 
saved." 

Madame  de  Dey  feared  a  trap;  she  did  not 
move,  but  her  face  was  on  fire  and  her  tongue 
was  frozen.  A  blow  of  the  knocker  rang 
through  the  house. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  terrified  mother,  falling 
on  her  knees.  "Save  him!  save  him!  " 

"Yes,  let  us  save  him,''  rejoined  the  public 
accuser,  with  a  passionate  glance  at  her;  "let 
us  save  him  though  it  cost  us  our  lives." 

"I  am  lost!"  she  cried,  while  the  accuser 
courteously  raised  her. 

"O  madame!"  he  replied  with  a  grand 
oratorical  gesture,  "I  do  not  choose  to  owe 
you  to  any  one  but  yourself." 

"Madame,  here  he "  cried  Brigitte, 

who  thought  that  her  mistress  was  alone. 

At  sight  of  the  public  accuser,  the  old  serv- 
ant, whose  face  was  flushed  with  joy,  be- 
came rigid  and  deathly  pale. 


The  Conscript 

"What  is  it,  Brigitte?"  asked  the  magis- 
trate, in  a  mild  and  meaning  tone. 

"  A  conscript  that  the  mayor  has  sent  here 
to  lodge,"  replied  the  servant,  showing  the 
ticket. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  the  accuser,  after  read- 
ing the  paper;  "a  battalion  is  to  arrive  here 
to-night." 

And  he  went  out. 

The  countess  was  too  anxious  at  that  mo- 
ment to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  her  former 
attorney  to  entertain  the  slightest  suspicion; 
she  ran  swiftly  up-stairs,  having  barely  strength 
enough  to  stand  upright;  then  she  opened 
the  door  of  her  bedroom,  saw  her  son,  and 
rushed  into  his  arms,  well-nigh  lifeless. 

"O  my  son,  my  son!"  she  cried,  sobbing, 
and  covering  him  with  frenzied  kisses. 

"  Madame "  said  the  stranger. 

"Oh!  it  isn't  he!"  she  cried,  stepping 
back  in  dismay  and  standing  before  the  con- 
script, at  whom  she  gazed  with  a  haggard 
expression. 

|230J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


"  Blessed  Lord  God,  what  a  resemblance!  " 
said  Brigitte. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  the 
stranger  himself  shuddered  at  the  aspect  of 
Madame  de  Dey. 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  she  said,  leaning  upon 
Brigitte's  husband,  and  feeling  then  in  all  its 
force  the  grief  of  which  the  first  pang  had  al- 
most killed  her;  "monsieur,  I  cannot  endure 
to  see  you  any  longer;  allow  my  servants 
to  take  my  place  and  to  attend  to  your 
wants." 

She  went  down  to  her  own  apartments, 
half  carried  by  Brigitte  and  her  old  servant. 

"What,  madamej "  cried  the  maid,  "is 
that  man  going  to  sleep  in  Monsieur  Auguste's 
bed,  wear  Monsieur  Auguste's  slippers,  eat  the 
pie  that  I  made  for  Monsieur  Auguste  ?  They 
may  guillotine  me,  but  I " 

"  Brigitte!  "  cried  Madame  de  Dey. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  chatterbox!"  said  her 
husband  in  a  low  voice;  "do  you  want  to 
kill  madame?" 

(240} 


The  Conscript 

At  that  moment  the  conscript  made  a  noise 
in  his  room,  drawing  his  chair  to  the  table. 

"  I  will  not  stay  here,"  cried  Madame  de 
Dey;  "I  will  go  to  the  greenhouse,  where  I 
can  hear  better  what  goes  on  outside  during 
the  night." 

She  was  still  wavering  between  fear  of  hav- 
ing lost  her  son  and  the  hope  of  seeing  him 
appear.  The  night  was  disquietingly  silent. 
There  was  one  ghastly  moment  for  the  count- 
ess, when  the  battalion  of  conscripts  marched 
into  the  town,  and  each  man  repaired  to  his 
lodging.  There  were  disappointed  hopes  at 
every  footstep  and  every  sound;  then  nature 
resumed  its  terrible  tranquillity.  Towards 
morning  the  countess  was  obliged  to  return  to 
her  room.  Brigitte,  who  watched  her  mistress 
every  moment,  finding  that  she  did  not  come 
out  again,  went  to  her  room  and  found  the 
countess  dead. 

"She  probably  heard  the  conscript  dressing 
and  walking  about  in  Monsieur  Auguste's 
room,  singing  their  d d  Marseillaise  as  if 

16 


Honore  de  Balzac 


he  were  in  a  stable!  "  cried  Brigitte.  "It  was 
that  which  killed  her!" 

The  countess's  death  was  caused  by  a  more 
intense  emotion,  and  probably  by  some  terri- 
ble vision.  At  the  precise  moment  when 
Madame  de  Dey  died  at  Carentan,  her  son  was 
shot  in  Le  Morbihan.  We  might  add  this 
tragic  story  to  the  mass  of  other  observations 
on  that  sympathy  which  defies  the  law  of 
space  —  documents  which  some  few  solitary 
scholars  are  collecting  with  scientific  curiosity, 
and  which  will  one  day  serve  as  basis  for  a 
new  science,  a  science  which  till  now  has 
lacked  only  its  man  of  genius. 

1831. 


T242] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 


raft) 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

"  T^HE  sight  was  fearful!  "  she  cried,  as  we 
1  left  the  menagerie  of  Monsieur  Martin. 

She  had  been  watching  that  daring  per- 
former work  with  his  hyena,  to  speak  in  the 
style  of  the  posters. 

"How  on  earth,"  she  continued,  "can  he 
have  tamed  his  animals  so  as  to  be  sure 
enough  of  their  affection  to " 

"That  fact,  which  seems  to  you  a  prob- 
lem," I  replied,  interrupting  her,  "is,  how- 
ever, perfectly  natural." 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  while  an  incredulous 
smile  flickered  on  her  lip. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  think  that 
beasts  are  entirely  devoid  of  passions  ?"  I  asked 
her.  "  Let  me  tell  you  that  we  can  safely  give 
them  credit  for  all  the  vices  due  to  our  state 
of  civilisation." 

fS45J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


She  looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"  But,"  I  continued,  "  when  I  first  saw  Mon- 
sieur Martin,  I  admit  that  I  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise, as  you  did.  I  happened  to  be  beside  an 
old  soldier  who  had  lost  his  right  leg,  and 
who  had  gone  into  the  menagerie  with  me. 
His  face  had  struck  me.  It  was  one  of  those 
dauntless  faces,  stamped  with  the  seal  of  war, 
upon  which  Napoleon's  battles  are  written. 
That  old  trooper  had  above  all  a  frank  and 
joyous  manner,  which  always  prejudices  me 
favourably.  Doubtless  he  was  one  of  those 
fellows  whom  nothing  surprises,  who  find  food 
for  laughter  in  the  last  contortions  of  a  comrade, 
whom  they  bury  or  strip  merrily;  who  defy 
cannon-balls  fearlessly,  who  never  deliberate 
long,  and  who  would  fraternise  with  the  devil. 
After  looking  closely  at  the  proprietor  of  the 
menagerie  as  he  came  out  of  the  dressing- 
room,  my  companion  curled  his  lip,  express- 
ing disdain  by  that  sort  of  meaning  glance 
which  superior  men  affect  in  order  to  dis- 

[2461 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

tinguish  themselves  from  dupes.  And  so, 
when  I  waxed  enthusiastic  over  Monsieur 
Martin's  courage,  he  smiled  and  said  to  me 
with  a  knowing  look,  shaking  his  head:  'I 
know  all  about  it! ' 

"'What?  You  do?'  I  replied.  'If  you 
will  explain  what  you  mean,  I  shall  be  very 
much  obliged.' 

"After  a  few  moments,  during  which  we 
introduced  ourselves,  we  went  to  dine  at  the 
first  restaurant  that  we  saw.  At  dessert,  a 
bottle  of  champagne  made  that  interesting  old 
soldier's  memory  perfectly  clear.  He  told  me 
his  history,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  justified  in 
exclaiming:  '  I  know  all  about  it!  " 

When  we  reached  her  house,  she  teased  me 
so,  and  made  me  so  "many  promises,  that  I 
consented  to  repeat  to  her  the  soldier's  story. 
And  so  the  next  day  she  received  this  episode 
of  an  epic  which  might  be  entitled  The  French 
in  Egypt. 

At  the  time  of  General  Desaix's  expedition 

[247] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


to  Upper  Egypt,  a  Provencal  soldier,  having 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Maugrabins,  was 
taken  by  those  Arabs  to  the  desert  which  lies 
beyond  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile.  In  order  to 
place  between  themselves  and  the  French  army 
a  sufficient  space  to  ensure  their  safety,  the 
Maugrabins  made  a  forced  march  and  did  not 
halt  until  dark.  They  camped  about  a  well, 
concealed  by  palm-trees,  near  which  they  had 
previously  buried  some  provisions.  Having 
no  idea  that  the  thought  of  flight  would  ever 
occur  to  their  prisoner,  they  simply  bound  his 
hands,  and  one  and  all  went  to  sleep,  after 
eating  a  few  dates  and  giving  their  horses 
some  barley.  When  the  bold  Provencal  saw 
that  his  enemies  had  ceased  to  watch  him,  he 
made  use  of  his  teeth  to  get  possession  of  a 
scimitar;  then,  using  his  knees  to  hold  the 
blade  in  place,  he  cut  the  cords  which  pre- 
vented him  from  using  his  hands,  and  was  free. 
He  at  once  seized  a  carbine  and  a  poniard, 
and  took  the  precaution  to  lay  in  a  supply  of 
dried  dates,  a  small  bag  of  barley,  and  some 

[2481 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

powder  and  ball;  then  he  strapped  a  scimitar 
about  his  waist,  mounted  a  horse,  and  rode 
swiftly  away  in  the  direction  in  which  he  sup- 
posed the  French  army  to  be.  In  his  haste  to 
reach  camp,  he  urged  his  already  tired  beast 
so  hard  that  the  poor  creature  died,  his  flanks 
torn  to  shreds,  leaving  the  Frenchman  in  the 
midst  of  the  desert. 

After  walking  through  the  sand  for  a  long 
time,  with  the  courage  of  an  escaping  convict, 
the  soldier  was  obliged  to  stop ;  the  day  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  Despite  the  beauty  of  the 
sky  of  an  Eastern  night,  he  did  not  feel  strong 
enough  to  go  on.  Luckily  he  had  been  able 
to  reach  an  elevation,  on  top  of  which  rose 
a  few  palm-trees,  whose  foliage,  seen  long 
before,  had  aroused  the  sweetest  hope  in  his 
heart.  His  weariness  was  so  great  that  he 
lay  down  upon  a  rock  shaped  like  a  camp- 
bed,  and  fell  asleep  there  without  taking  the 
least  precaution  to  protect  himself  while 
asleep.  The  loss  of  his  life  seemed  inevitable, 
and  his  last  thought  was  a  regret.  He  had 

[249J 


Honore  de  Balzac 


already  repented  of  having  left  the  Maugrabins, 
whose  wandering  life  had  begun  to  seem  de- 
lightful to  him  since  he  was  far  away  from 
them  and  helpless. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  sun,  whose  pitiless 
rays,  falling  perpendicularly  upon  the  granite, 
caused  an  intolerable  heat.  For  the  Provencal 
had  been  foolish  enough  to  lie  on  the  side  op- 
posite the  shadow  cast  by  the  majestic  and  ver- 
dant fronds  of  the  palm-trees.  He  looked  at 
those  solitary  trunks,  and  shuddered.  They 
reminded  him  of  the  graceful  shafts,  crowned 
with  long  leaves,  for  which  the  columns  of 
the  Saracen  cathedral  at  Aries  are  noted.  But 
when,  after  counting  the  palm-trees,  he 
glanced  about  him,  the  most  ghastly  despair 
settled  about  his  heart.  He  saw  a  bound- 
less ocean;  the  sombre  sands  of  the  desert 
stretched  away  in  every  direction  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see,  and  glittered  like  a  steel 
blade  in  a  bright  light.  He  did  not  know 
whether  it  was  a  sea  of  glass  or  a  succes- 
sion of  lakes  as  smooth  as  a  mirror.  Ris- 

[250] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

ing  in  waves,  a  fiery  vapour  whirled  above 
that  quivering  soil.  The  sky  shone  with  a 
resplendent  Oriental  glare,  of  discouraging 
purity,  for  it  left  nothing  for  the  imagination 
to  desire.  Sky  and  earth  were  aflame.  The 
silence  terrified  by  its  wild  and  desolate  maj- 
esty. The  infinite,  vast  expanse  weighed 
upon  the  soul  from  every  side;  not  a  cloud 
in  the  sky,  not  a  breath  in  the  air,  not  a 
rift  on  the  surface  of  the  sand,  which  seemed 
to  move  in  tiny  waves;  and  the  horizon 
terminated,  as  at  sea  in  fine  weather,  with 
a  line  of  light  as  slender  as  the  edge  of  a 
sword.  The  Provencal  embraced  the  trunk 
of  a  palm-tree  as  if  it  were  the  body  of  a 
friend;  then,  sheltered  by  the  straight,  slen- 
der shadow  which  the  tree  cast  upon  the 
stone,  he  wept,  seated  himself  anew,  and  re- 
mained there,  gazing  with  profound  melan- 
choly at  the  implacable  scene  before  his  eyes. 
He  shouted  as  if  to  tempt  the  solitude.  His 
voice,  lost  in  the  hollows  of  the  hillock,  made 
in  the  distance  a  faint  sound  which  awoke  no 

[251] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


echo;  the  echo  was  in  his  heart.  The  Pro- 
venc.al  was  twenty-two  years  old;  he  cocked 
his  carbine. 

"I  shall  have  time  enough  for  that!"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  placed  the  weapon  on 
the  ground. 

Gazing  alternately  at  the  dark  stretch  of  sand 
and  the  blue  expanse  of  the  sky,  the  soldier 
dreamed  of  France.  He  smelt  with  a  thrill  of 
rapture  the  gutters  of  Paris,  he  recalled  the 
towns  through  which  he  had  marched,  the 
faces  of  his  comrades,  the  most  trivial  details 
of  his  life.  In  truth,  his  southern  imagination 
soon  brought  before  him  the  stones  of  his  dear 
Provence,  in  the  eddying  waves  of  heat  which 
shimmered  above  the  vast  sheet  of  the  desert. 
Dreading  all  the  perils  of  that  cruel  mirage,  he 
descended  the  slope  opposite  that  by  which 
he  had  ascended  the  mound  the  night  before. 
He  was  overjoyed  to  discover  a  sort  of  cave, 
hollowed  out  by  nature  in  the  huge  fragments 
of  granite  which  formed  the  base  of  that  hil- 
lock. The  remains  of  a  mat  indicated  that 

[8521 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

the  shelter  had  once  been  inhabited.  Then, 
a  few  steps  away,  he  saw  some  palm-trees 
laden  with  dates.  At  that  sight  the  instinct 
which  attaches  us  to  life  reawoke  in  his  heart. 
He  hoped  to  live  long  enough  to  await  the 
passing  of  some  Maugrabins;  or  perhaps 
he  should  soon  hear  the  roar  of  cannon;  for 
at  that  moment  Bonaparte  was  marching 
through  Egypt.  Revived  by  that  thought, 
the  Frenchman  shook  down  several  clusters 
of  ripe  fruit,  beneath  the  weight  of  which  the 
trees  seemed  to  bend,  and  he  assured  himself, 
on  tasting  that  unlooked-for  manna,  that  the 
previous  occupant  of  the  grotto  had  cultivated 
the  palm-trees;  in  truth,  the  fresh  and  tooth- 
some flesh  of  the  dates  demonstrated  the  care 
of  his  predecessor.  The  Provencal  passed 
abruptly  from  the  gloomiest  despair  to  the 
most  frantic  joy. 

He  returned  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  em- 
ployed himself  during  the  rest  of  the  day 
cutting  down  one  of  the  sterile  palm-trees, 
which  had  served  him  for  a  roof  the  night 

[2531 


Honore  de  Balzac 


before.  A  vague  memory  brought  to  his 
mind  the  beasts  of  the  desert,  and,  antici- 
pating that  they  might  come  to  drink  at  the 
spring  which  gushed  out  of  the  sand  at  the 
foot  of  the  bowlders,  he  determined  to  guard 
himself  against  their  visits  by  placing  a  bar- 
rier against  the  door  of  his  hermitage.  De- 
spite his  zeal,  despite  the  strength  which  the 
fear  of  being  eaten  up  during  his  sleep  gave 
him,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  cut  the 
palm-tree  into  pieces  during  that  day,  but  he 
succeeded  in  felling  it.  When,  towards  even- 
ing, that  king  of  the  desert  fell,  the  noise  of 
its  fall  echoed  in  the  distance,  and  the  solitude 
uttered  a  sort  of  moan;  the  soldier  shuddered 
as  if  he  had  heard  a  voice  predicting  disaster. 
But  like  an  heir  who  does  not  mourn  long 
over  the  death  of  his  parent,  he  stripped  that 
noble  tree  of  the  great  green  leaves  which  are 
its  poetic  adornment,  and  used  them  to  repair 
the  mat,  upon  which  he  lay  down  to  sleep. 
Fatigued  by  the  heat  and  hard  work,  he  fell 
asleep  beneath  the  red  vault  of  the  grotto. 

(254] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  his  slumber 
was  disturbed  by  a  peculiar  noise.  He  sat 
up,  and  the  profound  silence  which  prevailed 
enabled  him  to  recognise  a  breathing  whose 
savage  energy. could  not  belong  to  a  human 
being.  A  terrible  fear,  increased  by  the  dark, 
the  silence,  and  the  bewilderment  of  the  first 
waking  moments,  froze  his  heart.  Indeed, 
he  already  felt  the  painful  contraction  of  his 
hair,  when,  by  dint  of  straining  his  eyes,  he 
perceived  in  the  darkness  two  faint  amber 
lights.  At  first  he  attributed  those  lights  to 
the  reflection  of  his  own  eyes;  but  soon,  the 
brilliancy  of  the  night  assisting  him  little  by 
little  to  distinguish  the  objects  in  the  cavern, 
he  discovered  a  huge  beast  lying  within  two 
yards  of  him.  Was  it  a  lion  ?  Was  it  a  tiger  ? 
Was  it  a  crocodile  ? 

The  Provengal  had  not  enough  education 
to  know  to  what  species  his  companion  be- 
longed; but  his  terror  was  the  more  violent 
in  that  his  ignorance  led  him  to  imagine  all 
sorts  of  calamities  at  once.  He  endured  the 

[856] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


fiendish  tortures  of  listening,  of  noticing  the 
irregularities  of  that  breathing,  without  losing 
a  sound,  and  without  daring  to  make  the 
slightest  motion.  An  odour  as  pungent  as  that 
given  forth  by  foxes,  but  more  penetrating, 
more  weighty,  so  to  speak,  filled  the  cave; 
and  when  the  Provencal  had  smelled  it,  his 
terror  reached  its  height,  for  he  could  no 
longer  doubt  the  nature  of  the  terrible  com- 
panion whose  royal  den  he  had  appropriated 
for  a  camp.  Soon  the  reflection  of  the 
moon,  which  was  sinking  rapidly  towards 
the  horizon,  lighted  up  the  den,  and  little 
by  little  illuminated  the  spotted  skin  of  a 
panther. 

The  lion  of  Egypt  was  asleep,  curled  up 
like  a  huge  dog  in  peaceable  possession  of  a 
luxuriant  kennel  at  the  door  of  a  palace;  its 
eyes,  which  had  opened  for  a  moment,  had 
closed  again.  Its  head  was  turned  towards  the 
Frenchman.  A  thousand  conflicting  thoughts 
passed  through  the  mind  of  the  panther's  pris- 
oner; at  first,  he  thought  of  killing  her  with 

[256] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

his  carbine;  but  he  saw  that  there  was  not 
room  enough  between  himself  and  the  beast 
for  him  to  take  aim ;  the  end  of  the  barrel  would 
have  reached  beyond  the  panther.  And  sup- 
pose she  should  wake  ?  That  supposition 
kept  him  perfectly  still.  As  he  listened  to  his 
heart  beat  in  the  silence,  he  cursed  the  too 
violent  pulsations  caused  by  the  rushing  of 
his  blood,  fearing  lest  they  should  disturb  that 
slumber  which  enabled  him  to  devise  some 
plan  of  escape.  Twice  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
scimitar,  with  the  idea  of  cutting  off  his 
enemy's  head;  but  the  difficulty  of  cutting 
through  the  close-haired  skin  made  him  aban- 
don the  bold  project.  "If  I  missed,  it  would 
be  sure  death,"  he  thought. 

He  preferred  the  chances  of  a  fight,  and 
determined  to  wait  for  daylight.  And  the 
day  was  not  long  in  coming.  Then  the 
Frenchman  was  able  to  examine  the  beast; 
its  muzzle  was  stained  with  blood. 

"It  has  eaten  a  good  meal,"  thought  he, 
undisturbed  as  to  whether  the  meal  had  been 

U  [257] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


of  human  flesh  or  not;  "it  will  not  be  hungry 
when  it  wakes." 

It  was  a  female;  the  hair  on  the  stomach 
and  thighs  was  a  dazzling  white.  A  number 
of  little  spots,  like  velvet,  formed  dainty 
bracelets  around  her  paws.  The  muscular 
tail  was  white  also,  but  ended  in  black  rings. 
The  upper  part  of  the  coat,  yellow  as  un- 
polished gold,  but  very  smooth  and  soft,  bore 
the  characteristic  marking  of  rose -shaped 
spots  which  serve  to  distinguish  panthers 
from  other  varieties  of  the  feline  family.  That 
placid  but  formidable  hostess  lay  snoring  in 
an  attitude  as  graceful  as  that  of  a  cat  lying 
on  the  cushion  of  an  ottoman.  Her  blood- 
stained paws,  muscular  and  provided  with 
sharp  claws,  were  above  her  head,  which 
rested  on  them ;  and  from  her  muzzle  projected 
a  few  straight  hairs  called  whiskers,  like  silver 
thread.  If  he  had  seen  her  thus  in  a  cage,  the 
Provencal  would  certainly  have  admired  the 
beast's  grace  and  the  striking  contrast  of 
the  bright  colours  which  gave  to  her  coat  an 

[2581 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

imperial  gloss  and  splendour;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment, his  eyes  were  bewildered  by  that  terri- 
ble sight.  The  presence  of  the  panther,  even 
though  asleep,  produced  upon  him  the  effect 
which  the  snake's  magnetic  eyes  are  said  to 
produce  upon  the  nightingale.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  soldier's  courage  oozed  away  before 
that  danger;  whereas  it  would  doubtless  have 
been  raised  to  its  highest  pitch  before  the 
mouths  of  cannon  vomiting  shot  and  shell. 
However,  a  bold  thought  entered  his  mind 
and  froze  at  its  source  the  cold  perspiration 
which  stood  on  his  brow.  Acting  like  those 
men  who,  driven  to  the  wall  by  misfortune, 
defy  death  and  offer  themselves  defenceless 
to  its  blows,  he  detected  in  that  adventure 
a  tragedy  which  he  could  not  understand, 
and  resolved  to  play  his  part  with  honour 
to  the  last. 

"The  Arabs  might  have  killed  me  day  be- 
fore yesterday,"  he  thought. 

Looking  upon  himself  as  dead,  he  waited 
with  anxious  curiosity  for  his  enemy  to  wake. 

[269] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


When  the  sun  appeared,  the  panther  suddenly 
opened  her  eyes;  then  she  stretched  her  paws, 
as  if  to  limber  them  and  to  rid  herself  of  the 
cramp;  finally  she  yawned,  showing  her  ter- 
rifying arsenal  of  teeth,  and  her  cloven  tongue, 
hard  as  a  file. 

"She  is  like  a  dainty  woman!"  thought 
the  Frenchman,  as  he  watched  her  roll  about 
and  go  through  the  prettiest  and  most  co- 
quettish movements. 

She  licked  off  the  blood  which  stained  her 
paws  and  her  nose,  and  scratched  her  head 
again  and  again,  with  the  most  graceful  of 
gestures. 

"Good!  give  a  little  attention  to  your 
toilet  ! "  said  the  Frenchman  to  himself,  his 
gayety  returning  with  his  courage;  "in  a 
moment  we  will  bid  each  other  good  day." 

And  he  grasped  the  short  poniard  which  he 
had  taken  from  the  Maugrabins. 

At  that  moment  the  panther  turned  her  face 
towards  the  Frenchman  and  gazed  steadfastly 
at  him  without  moving.  The  rigidity  of  her 

f260] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

steely  eyes,  and  their  unendurable  brilliancy, 
made  the  Provencal  shudder,  especially  when 
the  beast  walked  towards  him;  but  he  gazed 
at  her  with  a  caressing  expression,  and  smil- 
ing at  her  as  if  to  magnetise  her,  allowed  her 
to  come  close  to  him ;  then,  with  a  touch  as 
gentle  and  loving  as  if  he  were  caressing  the 
fairest  of  women,  he  passed  his  hand  over 
her  whole  body  from  head  to  tail,  scratch- 
ing with  his  nails  the  flexible  vertebrae  which 
formed  the  panther's  yellow  back.  The  ani- 
mal stiffened  her  tail  with  pleasure,  her  eyes 
became  softer;  and  when  the  Frenchman  per- 
formed that  self-interested  caress  for  the  third 
time,  she  began  to  purr,  as  cats  do  to  express 
pleasure;  but  the  sound  came  forth  from  a 
throat  so  deep  and  so  powerful  that  it  rang 
through  the  grotto  like  the  last  notes  of  an 
organ  through  a  church.  The  Provencal, 
realising  the  importance  of  his  caresses,  re- 
peated them  in  a  way  to  soothe,  to  lull  the 
imperious  courtesan.  When  he  felt  sure  that 
he  had  allayed  the  ferocity  of  his  capricious 


Honore  de  Balzac 


companion,  whose  hunger  had  certainly  been 
sated  the  night  before,  he  rose  and  started 
to  leave  the  grotto.  The  panther  allowed 
him  to  go;  but,  when  he  had  climbed  the 
hill,  she  bounded  after  him  as  lightly  as  a 
sparrow  hops  from  branch  to  branch,  and 
rubbed  against  his  legs,  curving  her  back  after 
the  manner  of  a  cat;  then,  looking  into  her 
guest's  face  with  an  eye  whose  glare  had  be- 
come less  deadly,  she  uttered  that  wild  cry 
which  naturalists  liken  to  the  noise  made  by 
a  saw. 

"She  is  very  exacting!"  exclaimed  the 
Frenchman,  with  a  smile. 

He  tried  playing  with  her  ears,  patting  her 
sides,  and  scratching  her  head  hard  with  his 
nails;  and  finding  that  he  was  successful,  he 
tickled  her  skull  with  the  point  of  his  dagger, 
watching  for  an  opportunity  to  kill  her,  but 
the  hardness  of  the  bones  made  him  afraid 
that  he  might  not  succeed. 

The  sultana  of  the  desert  approved  her 
slave's  talents  by  raising  her  head,  stretching 

[262] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

out  her  neck,  and  demonstrating  her  delight 
by  the  tranquillity  of  her  manner.  Suddenly 
the  Frenchman  thought  that  to  murder  with 
a  single  blow  that  savage  princess  he  would 
have  to  stab  her  in  the  throat,  and  he  had 
already  raised  his  blade,  when  the  panther, 
satiated  no  doubt,  gracefully  lay  down  at  his 
feet,  casting  on  him  from  time  to  time  glances 
in  which,  despite  their  natural  savagery,  there 
was  a  vague  expression  of  kindness.  The 
poor  Provencal  ate  his  dates,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  palm-trees;  but  he  gazed  by  turns 
at  the  desert  in  search  of  rescuers,  and  at  his 
terrible  companion  to  observe  the  progress  of 
her  uncertain  kindness.  The  panther  watched 
the  place  where  the  date-stones  fell,  whenever 
he  threw  one  away,  and  her  eyes  then  ex- 
pressed a  most  extraordinary  degree  of  suspi- 
cion. She  examined  the  Frenchman  with  the 
prudent  scrutiny  of  a  tradesman;  but  that 
scrutiny  was  evidently  favourable  to  him,  for, 
when  he  had  finished  his  meagre  meal,  she 
licked  his  shoes,  and  with  her  rough,  strong 

[868] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


tongue  removed  as  by  a  miracle  the  dust  that 
had  become  caked  in  the  creases  of  the  leather. 
"But  what  will  happen  when  she  is 
hungry?"  thought  the  Provencal.  Despite 
the  shudder  caused  by  that  idea,  the  soldier 
began  to  observe  with  a  curious  ardour  the 
proportions  of  the  panther,  certainly  one  of  thd 
finest  examples  of  the  species ;  for  she  was  three 
feet  in  height,  and  four  feet  long,  not  including 
the  tail.  That  powerful  weapon,  as  round  as 
a  club,  measured  nearly  three  feet.  The  face, 
which  was  as  large  as  a  lioness's,  was  distin- 
guished by  an  expression  of  extraordinary 
shrewdness;  the  unfeeling  cruelty  of  the  tiger 
was  predominant  therein,  but  there  was  also 
a  vague  resemblance  to  the  face  of  an  artful 
woman.  At  that  moment,  that  solitary  queen's 
features  disclosed  a  sort  of  merriment  like 
that  of  Nero  in  his  cups;  she  had  quenched 
her  thirst  in  blood,  and  was  inclined  to  play. 
The  soldier  tried  to  come  and  go;  the  pan- 
ther allowed  him  to  do  as  he  pleased,  con- 
tenting herself  with  following  him  with  her 

[264] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

eyes,  resembling  not  so  much  a  faithful  dog 
as  a  great  Angora  cat,  distrustful  of  every- 
thing, even  her  master's  movements.  When 
he  turned,  he  saw  beside  the  spring  the  re- 
mains of  his  horse;  the  panther  had  brought 
the  body  all  that  distance.  About  two-thirds 
of  it  were  consumed.  That  spectacle  encour- 
aged the  Frenchman.  It  was  easy  then  for 
him  to  explain  the  panther's  absence  and  the 
forbearance  with  which  she  had  treated  him 
during  his  sleep.  Emboldened  by  his  good 
fortune  to  tempt  the  future,  he  conceived  the 
wild  hope  of  living  on  good  terms  with  the 
panther  from  day  to  day,  neglecting  no  method 
of  taming  her  and  of  winning  her  good  graces. 
He  returned  to  her  side  and  had  the  inde- 
scribable joy  of  seeing  her  move  her  tail  with 
an  almost  imperceptible  movement.  There- 
upon he  sat  down  fearlessly  beside  her  and 
they  began  to  play  together:  he  patted  her 
paws  and  her  nose,  twisted  her  ears,  threw 
her  over  on  her  back,  and  scratched  rough- 
ly her  soft,  warm  flanks.  She  made  no 

[265] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


objection,  and  when  the  soldier  attempted  to 
smooth  the  hair  on  her  paws,  she  carefully 
withdrew  her  nails,  which  were  curved  like 
Damascus  blades.  The  Frenchman,  who  had 
one  hand  on  his  dagger,  was  still  think- 
ing of  thrusting  it  into  the  side  of  the  too 
trustful  panther;  but  he  was  afraid  of  being 
strangled  in  her  last  convulsions.  Moreover, 
he  had  in  his  heart  a  sort  of  remorse,  enjoin- 
ing upon  him  to  respect  a  harmless  creature. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  found  a  friend  in 
that  boundless  desert. 

Involuntarily  he  thought  of  his  first  sweet- 
heart, whom  he  had  nicknamed  Mignonne, 
by  antiphrasis,  because  she  was  so  fiendishly 
jealous  that,  throughout  all  the  time  that  their 
intercourse  lasted,  he  had  to  be  on  his  guard 
against  the  knife  with  which  she  constantly 
threatened  him.  That  memory  of  his  youth 
suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  trying  to  make 
the  young  panther  answer  to  that  name;  he 
admired  her  agility,  her  grace,  and  her  gentle- 
ness with  less  terror  now. 

[266] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  he  had  be- 
come accustomed  to  his  hazardous  situation  and 
he  was  almost  in  love  with  its  dangers.  His 
companion  had  finally  caught  the  habit  of  turn- 
ing to  him  when  he  called,  in  a  falsetto  voice: 

"Mignonne! " 

At  sunset,  Mignonne  repeated  several  times 
a  deep  and  melancholy  cry. 

"She  has  been  well  brought  up,"  thought 
the  light-hearted  soldier,  "  she  is  saying  her 
prayers." 

But  that  unspoken  jest  only  came  into  his 
mind  when  he  noticed  the  peaceful  attitude 
which  his  companion  maintained. 

"  Come,  my  pretty  blonde,  I  will  let  you  go 
to  bed  first,"  he  said,  relying  upon  the  agility 
of  his  legs  to  escape  as  soon  as  she  slept,  and 
trusting  to  find  another  resting-place  for  the 
night. 

He  waited  impatiently  for  the  right  mo- 
ment for  his  flight;  and  when  it  came,  he 
walked  rapidly  towards  the  Nile;  but  he  had 

travelled  barely  a  quarter  of  a  league  through 
raw] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  sand,  when  he  heard  the  panther  bound- 
ing after  him,  and  uttering  at  intervals  that 
sawlike  cry,  which  was  even  more  alarming 
than  the  heavy  thud  of  her  bounds. 

' '  Well,  well !"  he  said,  "  she  has  really  taken 
a  fancy  to  me  !  It  may  be  that  this  young 
panther  has  never  met  a  man  before;  it  is  flat- 
tering to  possess  her  first  love  !  " 

At  that  moment  he  stepped  into  one  of 
those  quicksands  which  are  so  perilous  to 
travellers,  and  from  which  it  is  impossible  to  ex- 
tricate one's  self.  Feeling  that  he  was  caught, 
he  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm ;  the  panther  seized 
him  by  the  collar  with  her  teeth,  and  with  a 
powerful  backward  leap  rescued  him  from 
death  as  if  by  magic. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  soldier,  caressing  her 
enthusiastically,  "it  's  a  matter  of  life  or 
death  between  us  now,  Mignonne  !  —  But  no 
tricks  ! " 

Then  he  retraced  his  steps. 

From  that  moment  the  desert  was,as  it  were, 
peopled  for  him.  It  contained  a  living  creature 

[268] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

to  whom  the  Frenchman  could  talk,  and  whose 
ferocity  was  moderated  for  him,  without  any 
comprehension  on  his  part  of  the  reasons  for 
that  extraordinary  friendship.  However  de- 
sirous the  soldier  was  to  remain  up  and  on  his 
guard,  he  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke  he  saw 
nothing  of  Mignonne;  he  ascended  the  hill, 
and  saw  her  in  the  far  distance,  bounding 
along  according  to  the  custom  of  these  ani- 
mals, which  are  prevented  from  running  by 
the  extreme  flexibility  of  their  spinal  column. 
Mignonne  arrived  with  bloody  chops;  she 
received  her  companion's  proffered  caresses, 
manifesting  her  delight  by  reiterated  and  deep 
purrs.  Her  eyes,  full  of  languor,  rested  with 
even  more  mildness  than  before  on  the  Pro- 
venc.al,  who  spoke  to  her  as  to  a  domestic 
animal: 

"Aha!  mademoiselle — for  you  are  a 
good  girl,  are  n't  you  ?  Upon  my  word  ! 
how  we  like  to  be  patted  !  Are  n't  you 
ashamed  !  Have  you  been  eating  up  some 
Arab  ?  Never  mind  !  they  're  animals  like 

[269] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


yourself.  But  don't  go  eating  Frenchmen, 
at  all  events.  If  you  do,  I  shall  not  love  you 
any  more  ! " 

She  played  as  a  huge  puppy  plays  with 
its  master,  allowing  him  to  roll  her  over  and 
pat  her  by  turns,  and  sometimes  she  chal- 
lenged him,  by  putting  her  paw  upon  him, 
with  an  appealing  gesture. 

Several  days  passed  thus.  That  compan- 
ionship enabled  the  Provencal  to  admire  the 
sublime  beauties  of  the  desert.  From  the 
moment  that  he  found  there  moments  of 
dread  and  of  security,  food  to  eat,  and  a  crea- 
ture of  whom  he  could  think,  his  mind  was 
excited  by  contrasts.  It  was  a  life  full  of 
opposing  sensations.  Solitude  made  manifest 
all  its  secrets  to  him,  enveloped  him  in  all  its 
charm.  He  discovered  spectacles  unknown  to 
the  world,  in  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun. 
He  started  when  he  heard  above  his  head  the 
soft  whirring  of  the  wings  of  a  bird — rare  vis- 
itant!—  or  when  he  watched  the  clouds  melt 
together  —  ever-changing,  many-tinted  voy- 

[270] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

agers!  During  the  night  he  studied  the  effects 
of  the  moon  on  the  ocean  of  sand,  where  the 
simoom  produced  waves  and  undulations  and 
swift  changes.  He  lived  in  the  gorgeous  light 
of  the  Orient,  he  admired  its  wonderful  splen- 
dours; and  often,  after  enjoying  the  awful 
spectacle  of  a  storm  on  that  plain,  where  the 
sand  rose  in  a  dry,  red  mist,  in  death-dealing 
clouds,  he  rejoiced  at  the  approach  of  night, 
for  then  the  delicious  coolness  of  the  stars  fell 
upon  the  earth.  He  listened  to  imaginary  mu- 
sic in  the  skies.  Solitude  taught  him,  too, 
to  seek  the  treasures  of  reverie.  He  passed 
whole  hours  recalling  trifles,  comparing  his 
past  life  with  his  present  one.  Lastly,  he  con- 
ceived a  warm  regard  for  his  panther,  for 
affection  was  a  necessity  to  him. 

Whether  it  was  that  his  will,  magnetically 
strong,  had  changed  his  companion's  disposi- 
tion, or  that  she  found  abundant  food,  because 
of  the  constant  battles  which  were  taking 
place  in  those  deserts,  she  spared  the  French- 
man's life,  and  he  finally  ceased  to  distrust 
ran] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


her  when  he  found  that  she  had  become  so 
tame.  He  employed  most  of  his  time  in 
sleeping;  but  he  was  obliged  to  watch  at 
times,  like  a  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web, 
in  order  not  to  allow  the  moment  of  his  deliv- 
erance to  escape,  if  any  human  being  should 
pass  through  the  circle  described  by  the  hori- 
zon. He  had  sacrificed  his  shirt  to  make  a 
flag,  which  he  had  hoisted  to  the  top  of  a 
leafless  palm-tree.  Advised  by  necessity,  he 
invented  a  way  to  keep  it  unfolded  by  the 
use  of  sticks,  for  the  wind  might  not  have 
stirred  it  at  the  moment  when  the  expected 
traveller  should  look  across  the  desert. 

But  it  was  during  the  long  hours  when 
hope  abandoned  him  that  he  played  with  the 
panther.  He  had  ended  by  learning  the  dif- 
ferent inflections  of  her  voice,  the  different 
expressions  of  her  eyes;  he  had  studied  all 
the  gradations  of  colour  of  her  golden  coat. 
Mignonne  no  longer  even  growled  when  he 
seized  the  tuft  of  hair  at  the  end  of  her  re- 
doubtable tail,  to  count  the  black  and  white 

[2T2] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

rings  —  a  graceful  ornament,  which  shone  in 
the  sunlight  like  precious  stones.  He  took 
pleasure  in  gazing  at  the  graceful  and  volup- 
tuous lines  of  her  figure,  and  the  whiteness 
of  her  stomach,  as  well  as  the  shapeliness  of 
her  head.  But  it  was  especially  when  she 
was  playing  that  he  delighted  in  watching 
her,  and  the  youthful  agility  of  her  movements 
always  surprised  him.  He  admired  her  sup- 
pleness when  she  bounded,  crept,  glided, 
crouched,  clung,  rolled  over  and  over,  darted 
hither  and  thither.  However  swift  her  bound, 
however  slippery  the  bowlder,  she  always 
stopped  short  at  the  word  "  Mignonne." 

One  day,  in  the  dazzling  sunlight,  an  enor- 
mous bird  hovered  in  the  sky.  The  Pro- 
ven^al  left  his  panther  to  scrutinise  that  new 
guest;  but  after  waiting  a  moment,  his  neg- 
lected sultana  uttered  a  low  growl. 

"God  forgive  me,  I  believe  that  she  is 
jealous!"  he  cried,  seeing  that  her  eyes  had 
Become  steely  once  more.  "Surely  Virginie's 
soul  has  passed  into  that  body!" 

18  [273] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


The  eagle  disappeared  while  the  soldier 
was  admiring  the  panther's  rounded  flank. 
There  was  so  much  youthful  grace  in  her 
outlines!  She  was  as  pretty  as  a  woman. 
The  light  fur  of  her  coat  blended  by  delicate 
shades  with  the  dead-white  of  her  thighs. 
The  vivid  sunshine  caused  that  living  gold, 
those  brown  spots,  to  gleam  in  such  wise  as 
to  make  them  indescribably  charming.  The 
Provencal  and  his  panther  gazed  at  each  other 
with  an  air  of  comprehension;  the  coquette 
started  when  she  felt  her  friend's  nails  scratch- 
ing her  head;  her  eyes  shone  like  flashes  of 
lightning,  then  she  closed  them  tight. 

"She  has  a  soul!"  he  cried,  as  he  studied 
the  tranquil  repose  of  that  queen  of  the  sands, 
white  as  their  pulsing  light,  solitary  and 
burning  as  they. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  me,  "I  have  read  your 
argument  in  favour  of  wild  beasts;  but  how 
did  two  persons  so  well  fitted  to  understand 
each  other  finally  come  out?" 

[274] 


A  Passion  in  the  Desert 

"Ah!  there  you  are!  It  ended  as  all  great 
passions  do,  by  a  misunderstanding.  Each 
believes  in  some  treachery;  one  refrains  from 
explaining  from  pride,  the  other  quarrels  from 
obstinacy." 

"  And  sometimes,  at  the  happiest  moment," 
she  said ;  "a  glance,  an  exclamation  is  enough 
—  well,  finish  your  story." 

"It  is  very  difficult,  but  you  will  under- 
stand what  the  old  veteran  had  already  con- 
fided to  me,  when,  as  he  finished  his  bottle 
of  champagne,  he  exclaimed : 

"'I  don't  know  how  I  hurt  her,  but  she 
turned  as  if  she  had  gone  mad,  and  wounded 
my  thigh  with  her  sharp  teeth  —  a  slight 
wound.  I,  thinking  that  she  meant  to  devour 
me,  plunged  my  dagger  into  her  throat.  She 
rolled  over  with  a  cry  which  tore  my  soul; 
I  saw  her  struggle,  gazing  at  me  without  a 
trace  of  anger.  I  would  have  given  anything 
in  the  world,  even  my  cross,  which  I  had  not 
then  earned,  to  restore  her  to  life  again.  It 
was  as  if  I  had  murdered  a  human  being;  and 

[275] 


Honore  de  Balzac 


the  soldiers  who  had  seen  my  flag  and  who 
hurried  to  my  rescue  found  me  weeping. 
Well,  monsieur,'  he  continued,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  'since  then  I  have  fought  in 
Germany,  Spain,  Russia,  and  France;  I  have 
marched  my  poor  old  bones  about,  but  I  have 
seen  nothing  comparable  to  the  desert.  Ah, 
that  is  magnificent,  I  tell  you ! ' 

"  '  What  were  your  feelings  there  ? '  I  asked. 

'"Oh,  they  cannot  be  told,  young  man. 
Besides,  I  do  not  always  regret  my  panther 
and  my  palm-tree  oasis:  I  must  be  very  sad 
for  that.  But  I  will  tell  you  this :  in  the  desert 
there  is  all — and  yet  nothing.' 

"'Stay!  — explain  that.' 

"'Well,  then,'  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience,  'God  is  there,  and  man  is  not'" 


[2T6] 


PQ 

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